Mind-Reader
by andromeda's song
Summary: A series of deadly bombings rattles London and Sherlock's on the case to prevent another. There's just one problem: the person who can give the answers is in a coma. Through a collaboration with an American fringe scientist, Sherlock and John dive down the rabbit hole for answers. But when Sherlock gains the ability to read minds... all bets are off.
1. The Case

**The idea for this story came to me as I was watching an episode from one of my favourite geek TV shows- Fringe (if you've never seen it, I HIGHLY recommend it-and it's on Netflix so go check it out). Fringe deals with an area called fringe science; things like mind control, astral projection, pyrokinesis, etc... I thought it would be an interesting idea if Sherlock and John were to dive into that particular rabbit hole in the midst of one of their cases.  
**

**As such, within this story you will encounter a mild Fringe crossover. I haven't classified this story as a crossover technically because the Sherlock characters will be dominant. The Fringe character I will use is only a means to an end and not the focus of the story itself. If I do it right, you won't need to know a thing about the Fringe universe to know what's going on. Don't let it throw you off without giving it a shot first. **

**Oh... and there will be Johnlock, because I have that kind of power. ;) Enjoy.**

* * *

One: The Case

Tranquillity was the equivalent to a rare and priceless artefact within the walls of 221 B Baker Street. Sure, there were days when the detective and the doctor were both at home, sitting quietly in their living room with books or laptops (or sunk deeply in mind palaces), enjoying the serenity that might last anywhere from an hour to a full day. But for someone like Sherlock Holmes, tranquillity was also the equivalency for boredom, and he hated being bored. As such, the tranquillity was usually punctured by bullets in the wall, impromptu violin concerts, and a variety of homemade experiments on human and non-human bits (some of which terminated in tiny explosions). Moreover, Sherlock's craving for puzzles and cases meant that their tranquillity was usually interrupted by either Lestrade or Mycroft barging in or phoning to say they had a case for him. After that, Sherlock would dart out the door with his ridiculous coat billowing behind him, his faithful blogger and best friend on his heels and all thoughts of peacefulness were banished.

So, John was not surprised when Mycroft Holmes sauntered into their flat with his umbrella during a rainy Sunday evening, disrupting what had begun as a peaceful evening in for both him and Sherlock. The detective himself was sprawled on the couch with a journal of forensic medicine and a notepad. John was at his desk, languorously pecking away at his laptop and attempting to update his blog on their latest solved cases when the elder Holmes entered unannounced. John frowned at the unusually solemn look on Mycroft's face. Mycroft was usually a fairly stone-faced individual, but there was also usually an air of haughtiness underneath that altered the mood of his visits. But tonight…there was no such haughtiness. Just weariness and maybe even… alarm.

Sherlock didn't even have to look. "Mycroft, dear brother," he drawled. "What brings you out of your cave on a Sunday evening? Don't you have some sort of international espionage to attend to?"

Mycroft stepped over to the couch and threw a thin file down on to Sherlock's chest without so much as a witty retort for his brother. Sherlock tossed his head back to stare up at his older brother and John watched their silent exchange. Whatever Sherlock saw there in the watery steel eyes of Mycroft Holmes, it made him frown subtly and then pick up the folder slowly from where it lay. Five photos fell out of the file and Sherlock studied them for a few moments. John watched Sherlock's expression morph from annoyance to intrigue to wariness. Sherlock sat upright on the couch and studied the photos with more intensity.

"How long ago were these taken?" Sherlock asked, his voice clear and ringing with alertness. John took notice of the newfound intensity in Sherlock's posture and voice and stood, walking over to the sofa to join him.

"Four hours ago," Mycroft answered.

"Any suspects?" Sherlock queried.

"Do you think I would be here if we did?"

"Surely you have more resources available to you than I ever could," Sherlock said, fixing Mycroft with a look. "What makes you think I can help with this?"

John seated himself beside Sherlock on the sofa and looked at the collection of photos in the detective's hands. Sherlock wordlessly passed them over and John felt his mind go blank with shock. The five photos depicted terrors that John thought he'd left behind in the dusty hills of Afghanistan. His chest constricted with sorrow long buried as he studied the pictures. Five bombs… five car bombs, to be exact, had apparently been detonated all across London. The photos had stilled the angry orange flames in that precise moment of time, licking their way over a charred exoskeleton of an automobile. In the foreground, some of the photos showed people… men and women covered with blood and soot, some of them alive and screaming. Some of them were not.

"What happened?" John asked, his voice rough with the heaviness of his memories.

Mycroft perched himself on the edge of the desk. "Four hours ago, five car bombs detonated in five different locations across London at precisely the same time. All of the vehicles were located in fairly busy sections of the city. My people are reviewing CCTV footage as we speak to look for plate numbers and perpetrator identification. The dead total at six and the wounded at thirty-five."

"Jesus," John breathed.

"Has no one come forward to claim responsibility for the act?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Mycroft answered. "Again, I would not be here if I already knew."

"But you're thinking terrorism," John voiced, noting the extra lines of tension on Mycroft's face. There were very few things that could ratchet Mycroft's visible tension, and John was betting that terrorism in the heart of London was one of them.

"What else could it be, Doctor Watson?" the man mused, looking at the doctor as he did so.

A silence overtook the three men for a few minutes before Sherlock finally asked, "What do you want from me exactly, Mycroft?" Inside his heart of hearts, Sherlock was simultaneously rejoicing and sobbing. On one hand, a case of terrorism was a terrifyingly exciting way to dispel the domesticity (aka boredom). Cases of terrorism needed to be solved immediately so as to prevent further casualties and destruction to their beloved London, which was a direct challenge for his mental capacities.

On the other hand, terrorism was innately abhorrent for even the most sociopathic human. Terrorism struck deep into the very core of your being because there was something so horrifyingly novel and destructive about it. Murder was extremely commonplace; every day there was some kind of story about another murder victim, so much so that eventually people became somewhat desensitized to it.

But terrorism… the notion of modern terrorism was something still so raw and new in the depths of the human psyche that its effects were devastating. Especially so for certain army doctors who had spent several tours of duty in the hotbed of terroristic activity. Sherlock knew that John would have spent an inordinate amount of time patching up victims of car bombings and even more time burying those that he couldn't save. To find a remnant of the war coming to life in the streets of London would surely dredge up the nightmares of Afghanistan for the good doctor.

Mycroft sighed. "We're calling out anyone and everyone who could potentially help find the people responsible for these car bombings and attempt to prevent any more from happening. The safety of the English people is our primary concern and therefore, all forces must be mobilised, from MI5 to Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

"I'll need data," Sherlock warned.

"You'll have it," Mycroft countered.

"I'd like to see the bodies of the victims," John interjected. Sherlock turned to face his partner, an unreadable look plastered on his face. John might have called it pride.

"Three of them have been sent to Dr Hooper at St Bartholomew's," Mycroft said. "You should go there and give the good pathologist some assistance. I'm sure your knowledge will help her and us, Dr Watson."

John was already on his feet and moving about the flat, his persona melting into that of one Captain John Watson, RAMC. Sherlock was right behind him, abandoning his dressing gown for his suit coat and the Belstaff. Mycroft stood and walked to the door, preparing to show himself out.

"Just one thing, gentleman," he called as he stuck one foot out the door. Both Sherlock and John turned from their preparations and faced the eldest Holmes brother.

"Don't do anything unusually stupid." With that, Mycroft was out the door, his umbrella clacking lightly against the stairs.

Sherlock watched his brother leave and then turned his attention to his flatmate and best friend, who was rummaging around the detritus on his desk, the tension clearly visible in the lines of his body and the firm set of his jaw. Sherlock placed his hands on his friend's shoulders and squeezed. John stilled in his motions and then spun around to face Sherlock, the detective rearranging his arms to rest lightly on John's shoulders again.

"John?" Sherlock asked, his voice asking the questions he didn't want to ask out loud. _Are you sure you want to do this? Are you positive you want to look at more victims of car bombings? Are you sure you want to go to war again? _

John quirked the corner of his mouth up into a small smile and brought his hands up to rest upon Sherlock's where they lay on his shoulders. He could read the excitement bubbling in his partner's eyes—a case of utmost importance and even more…a case that needed to be solved speedily. It was right up his detective's alley. But he could also read the concern that was welling up underneath—concern for John. It was something he didn't get to witness often, even though he knew that Sherlock consistently cared for his well-being.

"It's fine, Sherlock," John said in answer to the unasked questions. "I was a soldier, you know."

"But your nightmares…"

"Happen when I'm sleeping," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hands tightly. "While I am awake, I might as well put my experience to use by helping Molly. Besides, we might find some sort of clue that can help you find the answers and find the people responsible for this."

John reached up and pecked Sherlock's nose with his lips. "We have to do this, Sherlock. You and I…"

"Once more into the fray," Sherlock finished with a small smile.

The two men disengaged and finished dressing in their coats. John took his weapon and a small, worn journal with him, Sherlock took his magnifying glass and a lock-picking kit. When they were ready, Sherlock grabbed John's hand on instinct and flashed him the genuine smile he reserved for the doctor alone.

"The game is on, John!"


	2. The Morgue

**Warning: Descriptions of a corpse ahead. Nothing overly graphic, really, but please look away if it will trigger you. **

**Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, pathologist, detective, or crime-analyst expert of any sort. I'm just kind of making this up as I go along (it's fiction, right?). My reasoning may not be entirely sound or 100% scientifically accurate, but it kind of makes sense and works with my story. So just go with it. :) Thank you!**

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Two: The Morgue

It is a credit to Molly Hooper that she no longer lost her nerve every time Sherlock Holmes burst into her morgue without warning (or invitation). Oh, she still found herself slightly tongue-tied around the eloquent and (sometimes) abrasive detective, but she also felt more confident knowing that she was one of the very few people that he trusted with his life (literally). His fall from the rooftop had been not good on several levels…but it had been something of a balm for her somewhat toxic relationship with him. He was just a man, after all.

So when the doors to autopsy flew open and the detective walked in with John in tow, Molly merely glanced up at the pair (after having put her heart back in her chest, because damn it all if that didn't startle her) and then back down to the corpse in her hands. She was wrist deep in a man's intestines… no time for niceties. And this particular corpse was one of the poor souls that had been taken by the car bombs that went off in London. There were whispers—very loud whispers—that it was an act of terrorism. No doubt that's why Sherlock and John were here now.

"You're here for the victims of the car bombings," Molly stated, frowning in concentration as she dislodged a hunk of shrapnel from the man's upper intestine with a pair of forceps. She plunked the metal into a stainless steel bowl at her side and then looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. He nodded once, perfunctorily. Molly exhaled heavily and gestured to the man on the table with her chin.

"Henry Li, thirty-six years old, primary school teacher. He was on his way to work, rode his bicycle. He was cycling through a parking lot as a shortcut when the bomb detonated. He was right beside it."

She exhaled shakily before pulling her professional demeanour back into place. "Cause of death… well, pretty much everything you see before you. Third degree burns to 87 per cent of his body, massive blood loss from the shrapnel wounds, a fracture on his skull from where he impacted another car when the blast force threw him. I've only just started, but if I was a betting woman I'd say the head trauma is what killed him. The shrapnel wounds and the burns were just… extra."

Both John and Sherlock stepped closer to the body to peer at it. Sherlock heard John inhale in recognition and one look at the man's injuries made it clear as to why he did so. Li's body looked as if it had been chewed by the metal shrapnel of the car. The skin of his torso and his extremities was charred in many places and where the skin wasn't blackened it was a deep, meaty red. It was a sight John had seen many times during his tours in Afghanistan. It was not something you easily forgot.

"Jesus H Christ," John breathed. Sherlock turned to face the doctor, but John only had eyes for the victim on the table. John reached for a pair of gloves and snapped them on, looking to Molly for permission. She acquiesced with a nod of her head, her hands still occupied with rooting around in the man's insides for shrapnel pieces. John gently began to examine the man's outsides, prodding delicately at the burned and weeping flesh.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked. Molly deposited another piece of shrapnel into the bowl with a metallic _chink_.

John's eyes roved over Li's body, and Sherlock saw amiable Dr John Watson leave his partner's eyes to be replaced by Captain John Watson, army doctor. "It's very similar to the victims we saw in Afghanistan," he said coolly, his voice detached and clinical. "The burns and the shrapnel wounds… it's all here. The only difference is that this man wasn't wearing army fatigues." John's lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.

Sherlock snapped on his own pair of gloves and moved to Molly's side, picking up a few of the fragments from the bowl beside her. He studied them as where they lay in the palm of his hand, his aquamarine eyes narrowing in concentration as he looked at the shattered pieces of metal. Sherlock picked up a small petri dish from the counter and placed a few of the chips inside.

"Molly," he started. "I'm going to take these—'''

"Take them and go do whatever voodoo you do, Sherlock," Molly sang, cutting him off. He shot her an almost dumbfounded look, but she turned to him with a sad smile. "We've got a potential terrorist plot to uncover. I've got bodies to autopsy, John's got knowledge to divulge for me, and you've got shrapnel to examine. Not a moment to lose."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed Molly's cheek with enthusiasm, which caused the pathologist to blush cherry red and clear her throat before swatting at the detective with her elbows to get him out of her space. Sherlock snapped his gloves off and tossed them in the bin, grabbing the petri dish full of shrapnel on his way out the door. John took his gloves off as well and then discarded his coat, trading it for one of the scrub jackets lying folded on a tray. He put a fresh pair of gloves on and stepped back to Henry Li's body, continuing his scan from where he left off. He poked and prodded around the man's outsides while Molly continued to pull hunks of metal from the man's insides. They worked for some number of minutes in contemplative silence before Molly spoke.

"Is this what war is like, John?" she asked, her voice shy in the quiet space, but her question firm.

John exhaled slowly as he stared at the body in front of him, his eyes glazed over as his mind took him thousands of miles across oceans and mountains and deserts, back to the hot plains of Afghanistan. Images flashed in front of him—the flash of rifle fire in the dead of night, the squawk of radios, the cries of the wounded, the echoes of mortar fire from the distant hills, the laughter from the lads in their tents… it all seemed so far away from him and yet so close at the same time. The corpse that lay in front of him was yet another one of the many faceless men and women that they had buried under the shifting sands, some of them metaphorically and some of them literally. The soldiers got to go home to England and rest there…what was left of them, anyway.

But the civilians… the Afghani innocents caught in the middle of war that ravaged their lands and threatened their lives…they were buried in the sand under the watchful eyes of their relatives. They were called collateral damage. It was an awfully heartless term for something that had so much life. To John and the rest of his company, the natives were never collateral damage…they were neighbours. And they buried them with as much solemnity as they did one of their own. John looked up and down Henry Li's body and then over Molly's shoulder to the two other black bags on the tables behind her. Now the collateral damage was being metred here, at home. Innocent English citizens were being blown to bits without discrimination and damned if that didn't ignite a spark deep in John's chest. Some days it was easy to forget the war itself, especially since he spent his time chasing criminals around London with Sherlock. The act provided the adrenaline rush and the sparks of danger that he missed from the war. Helping Sherlock and Lestrade… it provided all the adrenaline of the chase without the lasting damage (usually). The memories of broken and burned bodies ripped to shreds by bullets and mortars slipped into the back of his mind and stayed there, almost like a dream; a nightmare long passed. But now the memories of war had landed solidly on his doorstep, a great ugly vulture bringing back the terror he thought he'd buried long ago.

And it was awfully real.

"No, Molly," John answered at long last. "War is much uglier than this, I assure you."

Molly reached forward and gently nudged John's hand with her wrist, flashing him a small smile as their eyes met. John returned the smile and then turned his attention back to the body.

"So," he said. "Have you found anything that might give us a clue as to who did this or…any kind of specifics about the attacks themselves?"

Molly frowned as she plucked another hunk of metal from a tear in Li's pancreas. "Well, doctor, I was rather hoping you would be able to provide some of that information. I mean… the man looks like he's swallowed a blender."

John furrowed his brow in concentration and then poked his hand into the man's insides, digging around the shredded organic material. "Well, I have to say that these internal injuries are a hell of a lot… cleaner than the wounds I saw in Afghanistan."

"You mean less dirt and things?" Molly asked.

"Well, yes… but what I meant was that the perforation and the lacerations are all smooth cuts. See around these bits here," John pointed at some neat slashes in the liver. "The wounds we got used to seeing in Afghanistan were always ragged and torn around the edges. A lot of the bombs we encountered were…homemade with whatever they could scrap together. They did more damage that way, and as you said, the wounds were always dirtier from the rusted pipes and things they used to build them. But these wounds… they're clean and neat…comparatively, anyway."

"What do you think that means, John?" Molly queried. She pulled a sliver of silver metal from Li's body and held it up between them. John took it from her and examined it in his gloved fingers.

"It means, Molly, that whoever set off these car bombs… they had access to better materials and probably had more training in putting them together. I don't think these were slapdash jobs put together by some homegrown terrorist operation."

John fixed Molly with a penetrative gaze. "I think this was done by professionals."

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**A/N: My Wiki research indicates that technical term for the pieces of a detonated bomb, grenade, or artillery shell is fragmentation (or frag, for short), with "splinters" or "shards" being used to describe the preformed parts. Shrapnel is actually in reference to the shrapnel shell, which is a shell casing that's filled with steel or lead balls suspended in resin. When the shell is fired, an explosive charge at the base of the shell fractures the resin matrix and releases the balls, which still retain their velocity from the initial firing sequence. The term "shrapnel" is mistakenly used to refer to fragmentation from the aforementioned explosive devices, especially by non-military media sources. I'm using the term shrapnel because… everyone knows what that means, even though we're technically wrong.**

**The more you know! (Thank you Wikipedia!)**

**Also... John's musings about war, death, Afghani civilians, etc... that's all me, folks. Not trying to make any sort of political statements or anything of the sort. This is just my interpretation of our former army doctor's mind. **


	3. The Confirmation

**Hi. I apologise in advance for any inconsistencies or weirdness. Work+band+musicals= sheer exhaustion and non-functioning brain cells. **

**You know what they say... life is what happens when you'd rather be writing fanfiction.**

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Three: The Confirmation

Sherlock's brain was humming with energy as he studied the convoluted piece of metal, turning it to and fro in his gloved hands. He took a swab and gently cleaned off bits of organic material from the dulled silver surface. The material from the swab was sloughed off into a vial of solution and slotted into the centrifuge for analysis. With that machine whirring happily, Sherlock turned his attention back to the metal shard.

So engrossed in his inspection of the bomb shard was he that he scarcely heard John enter the lab. In fact, John was about to reach over to lay a hand on the detective so as to get his attention when Sherlock suddenly sprang to life, nearly giving John a heart attack in the process.

"John! I've discovered it!" Sherlock stood from his stool and made to turn and leave the lab when he noticed John standing a mere three feet away from him, his expression one of fond bemusement.

"Oh good," Sherlock said. "You're here." Sherlock slid back on to his stool and gestured at the array of evidence in front of him, including the bomb shard and several dozens of crime scene photos. "John, I've been examining this piece of fragmentation and the crime scene photos and I have reached the inevitable conclusion that this bomb was the work of an individual or a cell with experience building and detonating bombs, knowledge of strategic placement, and access to significant funds in order to get materials of this calibre. In short, this looks like nothing short of a professional hit."

"I know," John said.

"John, it's quite elementary. When you look at all the facts presented, you have no choice—''' He stopped mid-sentence, finally catching up with what John had actually said. "Oh," the detective corrected. "Well… good. How? How did you know?"

John smirked and picked up a photo of Henry Li's body from where it lay upon the table. "It's quite…elementary, Sherlock." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John chuckled and then continued. "I've gone over Henry Li's body and did a preliminary examination of the other two bodies in Molly's possession. It would seem that my conclusions based on those examinations match your conclusion."

John grew solemn and glanced over at the array of crime scene photos before resting his hand gently upon a panorama shot that enveloped the whole of the scene. Soot and ash blackened the scene and flames danced in the charred hull of the vehicle. Two bodies lay mangled on the street and in the background, a dozen injured people gazed upon the scene, some holding bloodied cloth to their injuries. Sherlock watched as a myriad of emotions played in the depths of John's eyes, the memories waltzing around him like a hideous parade.

"When you're in Afghanistan, you learn rather quickly the difference between an insurgent's homemade bomb and a…state sponsored bomb, as it were," John said. "The materials leave different wounds and different marks on the landscape. What happened to Henry Li and the other people today… that was no insurgent's bomb. It was all too clean."

At that moment, the centrifuge chirped its completion and both men turned to look at it. "And I guarantee," John said, "that the analysis of material you swabbed from the frag piece will show a higher grade of chemicals that couldn't be found in an insurgent's bomb, leastways not one that isn't sponsored by someone with a big chequebook."

Sherlock smiled at his partner. "A sound analysis, John."

"Thank you," the doctor replied. "Did you find anything else?"

Sherlock nodded mutely and picked up the shard of metal from where it lay under the lens of the microscope. "As I said before, I have determined as you have that these bombs were constructed and detonated by someone or many someones with considerable experience in the field of explosives, as well as a considerable sum of money with which to do it." He handed the shard over to John, who picked up a pair of forceps from the table and grasped the piece of metal.

"Tell me what you see," Sherlock instructed.

John raised an eyebrow at his partner, but Sherlock only stared back with an impassive face. John sighed and turned the shard round and round, trying to look at it from every angle to see what the detective saw.

"Sherlock, I don't see anything. It's just a bomb fragment, probably a part of the outer shell, based on the difference between the shading and the texture of the metal."

Sherlock smiled and opened his hand for the fragment. John dropped the piece into the man's palm and watched as Sherlock placed it under the microscope again, using the metal tabs on the tray to nudge the fragment into position. Sherlock looked into the eyepiece and then sat back with another knowing smirk, nodding his head at the device. John raised another eyebrow but moved closer to the machine, insinuating himself closer to the detective as well. John looked into the eyepiece and focused on the pebbly texture of the shard. There, right in the centre of his view, there was a small stamp on the metal, too small to be seen with the naked eye. The small block letters read "TRF 2009-1576". John stepped back from the microscope with a sharp inhale.

Sherlock frowned at his partner. "John, what is it?"

John swallowed hard and looked Sherlock dead in the eye. "Sherlock, do you know what these letters and numbers mean?"

"I had assumed that it was some sort of identification code," Sherlock said slowly. "It would allow us to track down the origin of the explosive or at least the materials used to construct it."

"You're right about that," John breathed, sinking onto a second stool at the table.

"John?" Sherlock questioned. "What does it mean? What are those letters and numbers?"

"Tango Romeo Foxtrot, 2009-1576," John breathed. "Sherlock… this bomb belonged to the British Army."

* * *

"How do you know this, Doctor Watson?"

John stared at Mycroft as if he'd grown a third eye right in the middle of his forehead. The man had been waiting for him and Sherlock when they'd left the lab and now they were all sitting in the back of one of Mycroft's notorious black cars, John and Sherlock facing Mycroft. They'd spent the past five minutes deconstructing their findings for the elder Holmes brother, who had taken it all in with an impassive face.

"Really, Mycroft? I was a captain in the RAMC and in the British army for many years as both doctor and combat soldier. You pick up on a few things."

"I was under the assumption that the explosive ordinance identification code was not among the things you… picked up, John," Mycroft stated.

"Well, perhaps not… but we checked," John said. He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face, mentally prepping himself for the tale. "One night, there was an attack on a village near our base in Kandahar. The locals in that village were friendly with us… we'd play football with the kids and trade our rations for fresh vegetables and things like that. Then, the village was hit by mortar fire and there were many casualties… a lot of them children." John paused and rubbed his forehead with his hand.

"Anyway, a lot of my people were upset at the attack on the village, so we did a little recon to see if we could find anything to lead us to the perpetrators. It was all done in secret, since investigations into bombings of civilian outposts would have been considered a gross waste of our time and resources. We found the stamp just like Sherlock did and some of our computer guys did some research, incognito of course. The explosives that destroyed the village were British army, all marked with the indicator Tango Romeo Foxtrot and then the year it was built and a numerical ID."

"Why would the British army fire upon a village that was seemingly non-hostile?" Sherlock asked.

"It was officially declared that the village was hiding several key members of a terrorist cell that had destroyed several American convoys," John said. "That's what we were told, anyway. To this day, I'm not so sure that I believe it."

A silence fell over the three men and the city of London passed outside their windows. John was lost in the blur of his memories from Afghanistan, a haze of yellow sand, blue sky, and red blood. Sherlock was knee-deep in his musings over the case, trying to put the pieces together in his mind. Mycroft was having a silent panic attack even though you'd never know it to look at him. No doubt the evidence from the other crime scenes would reveal the same findings, which meant Mycroft was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

The car stopped and the black door of Baker Street beckoned invitingly. Mycroft snapped from his own reveries and looked at his brother and the doctor. The knowledge that British army explosives had been used in London and had killed and injured British citizens… that knowledge in itself was its own bomb ready to explode. If word of this would reach the diligent ears of the press, the results would be catastrophic. That's not to say that the idea that a foreign terrorist had planted car bombs all over downtown London was any better. Mycroft had a lot of work to do in the next twenty-four hours and he was going to need the two men in front of him to do it.

"I shall call again if I find anything new for you, gentlemen," Mycroft said as Sherlock opened the door to exit the vehicle.

"Thank you for the warning, Mycroft," Sherlock said, his voice bland and teasing.

"I would tell you to exercise caution if you decide to investigate this case further, dear brother," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's jibe. "But I am afraid that I would only be talking to myself."

Sherlock harrumphed and exited the car, John on his heels with a polite word of farewell to Mycroft. The detective unlocked the front door to their home and the black car disappeared down the street, wheels splashing through puddles left from the rain.

* * *

It was roughly an hour later when John, seated comfortably in his armchair, closed the small journal in his lap with a quiet thump and drained the lukewarm dregs of his tea. The thump of the journal closing alerted Sherlock where he lay draped on the couch in his dressing gown, his hands poised under his chin in thought. He quirked an eye open as he sensed John's presence entering his space.

"Right, I'm going to bed, Sherlock," John said from where he stood over Sherlock's head. "Are you coming?"

Sherlock opened both of his eyes and looked up at John thoughtfully. "In a bit," he answered. "I'm thinking at the moment."

"About the bombings?" John asked.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Yes. About the bombings… and about you."

"Me?" John asked, raising his eyebrow.

Sherlock's face smoothed out in a rare show of an emotion other than snarkiness. He slowly stood from his reclined position on the couch and turned to face John, cupping the doctor's cheek tenderly in his hand. John sighed in contentment and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock stroked his thumb along John's cheekbone and revelled in the feeling of John leaning into the pressure.

"You never talk about Afghanistan, not like you have today," Sherlock murmured.

"There's usually no reason to talk about it," John answered.

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his forehead against John's, eyes closed and senses attuned to the feeling of John breathing against him. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's waist and nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John whispered in response to Sherlock's unasked question. "Really, it's all fine."

Sherlock pulled back and studied his partner's face and as usual, was taken aback by the waves of honesty that were flowing from John's open face. He leaned down to press his lips softly against John's, a chaste but loving kiss filled with adoration and respect. It made John's head fuzzy with satisfaction knowing that he could elicit this kind of feeling from Sherlock. It also made him dizzy with the sheer amount of love and gratitude he felt for his best friend.

"Go to bed," Sherlock said. "I'll be along in an hour or two." The two men parted and the night closed in upon Baker Street.

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**Hopefully the unapologetic fluff makes up for the fact that I'm not a crime-fiction writer by any means. :) Thanks for all your support and your patience. **


	4. With Malice Aforethought

Four: With Malice Aforethought

Sherlock believed that if he was indeed going to shut down his transport for a few hours and actually get some sleep, the best way to do so was to fall asleep beside John. At least, that's what he'd discovered in the past few months since they'd become… an item. No matter what had occurred during the day (or during the night…), there was always some sort of zen peace when he and John were curled up beside one another, listening to each other's heartbeats and steady breathing. It was a perfect reminder that they were both still very much alive and very much together, which was something they both needed considering the type of work they were in.

But perhaps the one thing that Sherlock enjoyed more than falling asleep next to John was waking up beside him, especially when the pale morning sun would peek in and grace John's sleeping form with its light. It was all very… gooey and romantic, which almost made Sherlock gag, but John was different. John had always been different. And in the quiet of the early morning when it was just the two of them and their bed and that peaceful bliss of waking, Sherlock allowed and welcomed the sentiment. This particular morning, Sherlock awoke to find himself spooning John (dear god, that was such an awful word). One arm was tucked under his pillow and the other was thrown over John's hip, twined carefully with one of John's hand. Sherlock could feel John's back move with each breath he took and his skin felt so deliciously warm against Sherlock's.

It would have been the perfect morning had it not been for the presence of one Martha Hudson, who was standing in the doorway of the room, blinking owlishly at him.

Sherlock's groan had nothing to do with Mrs Hudson herself, or even her presence in their room, really. The enduring woman had once or twice walked in upon the two of them in more compromising situations (of all sorts, considering the type of work they were in). She'd admitted with a hearty chuckle and a smile that she preferred that over the bullet holes in the wall. "I'm not a prude!" she'd said. The dear woman had also helped to take care of both of them during their sporadic cases of colds and flus over the years, so seeing her 'boys' in their bed was really not something she was unused to.

However, Mrs Hudson made it a point to respect their privacy. Her presence in their room, especially at 6:00 in the morning could only mean that someone was here to see them. It could also mean that the flat was on fire or London was being overrun by aliens—as it was wont to do—but considering the events of the past eighteen hours or so…

"Who is it, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock grunted, his voice gravelly with sleep. He loosed his hold on John and shifted to sit up. The movement caused John to wake and stir sleepily.

"Mycroft," Mrs Hudson said. Sherlock noticed that the woman was still in her dressing gown as well, and he felt a pang of annoyance at his brother going about knocking people out of their beds. He sighed and then waved a hand at Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Will you tell my dearest brother that he's an insufferable git and that we'll be down in five minutes?"

Mrs Hudson nodded sagely. "You know I just might do that since he's about at this time knocking people out of their beds."

"You're a saint, Mrs Hudson," John mumbled. The older woman smiled at the pair of them and then excused herself.

"What's going on?" John muttered. He rolled over on his back and blinked his eyes open, catching Sherlock's gaze as his pupils contracted in the morning light.

"Apparently, Mycroft has decided to grace us with his presence this morning," Sherlock responded. He leaned down and pressed a kiss on to John's lips.

"Mmm," John hummed in acquiescence. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Think he's got new information on the case?"

"I don't see how it can be anything else. Mycroft is not one for social calls unless it's for the strict purpose of inconveniencing me." Sherlock stretched and then swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing and going to retrieve his dressing gown from the chair where it had landed yesterday. John fetched his own from the end of the bed and they left the room together to go see the elder Holmes.

Mycroft was seated in Sherlock's armchair, apparently making bland chitchat over the tea that Mrs Hudson had prepared for them all. Mycroft's attention was drawn up to Sherlock and John as they entered the sitting room. Mrs Hudson took her teacup and padded back to the door.

"I'll just be downstairs, dears, if you need anything," she said before tottering off. "But just this once, mind you. I'm not your housekeeper."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John called after her. Sherlock settled into John's chair across from his brother and John settled on the arm of the chair, leaning in to Sherlock for support.

"Making house calls, now, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered as he poured John a cup of tea. John accepted the cuppa gratefully, sipping at the hot liquid.

"I thought you would be interested to know that we've identified a potential suspect in the bombings," Mycroft stated in the same neutral tone he'd used with Mrs Hudson.

John choked on his tea. "How the hell you'd do that?" When Mycroft and Sherlock both raised their eyebrows at him, John squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled heavily before he continued to speak. "What I mean is, when last we spoke, the only thing we knew for sure was that the bombs had previously been made for the British army. I assume you tracked down the identification number to locate the batch and perhaps the company it belonged to. But there are literally dozens of men and women who handled those explosives. How could possibly have known… who specifically was responsible?"

Mycroft's lips twitched into what might have been a small smirk as he turned his glance to Sherlock again. "He really is getting better at this, isn't he, Sherlock?"

"I'm not an idiot," John retorted hotly. "But seriously, Mycroft… how'd you do it?"

Mycroft shot Sherlock a short glance and John felt the detective inhale sharply. "You identified the unknown chemical compound," Sherlock said.

"What unknown chemical compound?" John asked.

"We received Dr Hooper's alert and sent over a team to help her with the containment process as well as the analysis," Mycroft said. "We were able to isolate the compound and match it to a compound used in an old MOD experiment."

"What chemical compound?" John asked.

"Is Molly alright?"

Mycroft nodded. "She caught on to the reaction before it reached her and she was able to get away. We ran her through basic decontamination procedures just to be sure."

"Decontamination procedures… what's going on!?" John demanded.

Mycroft exhaled and stood up, pacing the room in an uncanny likeness of his younger brother. "At approximately 10:15 last night, Dr Hooper began to notice that the skin and exposed tissue of the victims from yesterday's bombings was beginning to disintegrate. The dissolution of organic material was occurring rather rapidly, so she immediately locked down the morgue and our division was alerted."

"How far did the bodies break down?" John asked, his medical curiosity getting the better of him.

"By the time we arrived, most of the… meat from the bodies had been dissolved, leaving only some of the tougher cartilages and bone," Mycroft said.

"Jesus, Mycroft," John breathed. "And you think… a chemical did this?"

"Yesterday, the analysis of materials from the fragmentation piece I swabbed revealed an unknown molecule," Sherlock said. "I sent the specifics to Mycroft's cronies—'''

"Who in turn were able to match the compound to a molecule that was synthesized in an MOD experiment that began back in 2007," Mycroft finished.

"Do you have the files on the MOD experiments?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft held a stack of files aloft in his hand. "Project Rust. Lead scientist was a Dr Levi Schaffer, deceased in 2009… blood clot in his brain, he was dead in seconds. After the death of Dr Schaffer, the project was suspended and all team members were reassigned."

"And what was the aim of Project Rust?" John asked, leafing through a few of the files as he accepted them from the elder Holmes.

Mycroft took his seat again and sipped at his tea before he answered. "Dr Schaffer and his team were developing a chemical payload that would be attached to a regular detonation sequence. Essentially, the bomb would detonate as usual and then a few hours after, the chemical—which coated the insides of the bomb—would begin to break down any organic tissue in its path."

"Why?" John queried in a low voice.

Mycroft fixed him with a cold look. "Surely you know better than to ask such a thing when it comes to the military and their reasoning, Doctor Watson."

"It's barbaric," John muttered.

"But the project was suspended," Mycroft said. "After Dr Schaffer's death, Project Rust was shut down and the research catalogued, his people were reassigned. The British army never used the chemical weapons developed in the project."

"Does the compound appear to affect living tissue?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shrugged a shoulder. "There were no tests and no one living has come into contact with it as far as we can tell, but logic would dictate that yes, it very well would interact with live tissue as it does with dead tissue."

"Have your people begin to work on a vaccination," Sherlock deadpanned.

"We already are," Mycroft said.

"Okay, but you've still lost me," John said. "When you came in, you said you'd identified a potential suspect."

Mycroft extricated another folder and laid it out on his knees. "The weapons developed in Project Rust were never officially collected by any company in the British army, nor any private contractors. The weapons that had been built by the time of Dr Schaffer's passing were rudimentary in their design…they were still in their testing phases. As such, the weapons and the accompanying research were kept in a warehouse with…other such failed projects."

"Like Area 51?" John snorted. Mycroft scowled at him.

"As I was saying," the elder Holmes continued, "the weapons were kept under lock and key and we never heard a peep in all this time… nearly four years."

"Let me guess," Sherlock droned. "As it turns out… the weapons were actually stolen."

Mycroft made an impatient noise in his throat. "We never thought anything of it, honestly. Four weeks ago, several items related to Project Rust were stolen from the warehouse… just raw materials, none of the research. We assumed the materials would be useless to the thief without the research to accompany it, so it rather fell to the bottom of our priority list. Not to mention the fact that we had no idea how on earth anyone managed to remove it from a guarded warehouse."

"Do you have our suspect's dossier?" Sherlock asked, holding his hand out.

"Wait," John asked. "How'd you figure out who it was?"

"Think, John!" Sherlock implored impatiently. "There is a very short list of people that would have the capability to pull this off. First, they'd have to be able to get into a government warehouse, which indicates that they've most likely been trained or employed by said government. Second, who steals raw materials for a chemical weapon, but not the research to further development on said weapon? It only makes sense that someone who had previously worked on the project would do so. They wouldn't need the catalogued research; they'd have their own or have the formulas memorised."

"Brilliant," John muttered.

"There were ten people working for Project Rust. Three are dead from natural causes, three left government employ after the project was suspended, and four remain. The one that stands out amongst those four would be Dr Elliott Hammond. He was Dr Schaffer's second in command and a strict advocate for their work." Mycroft stood and straightened his jacket.

"You will see to it?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stared his brother in the eye and then gave one sharp nod of his head. "I will see to it."

* * *

**Alright, y'all so the normal disclaimers apply! I'm not a scientist or a detective or anything clever like that. However, if you are interested, I am basing the plot line and the scientific details vaguely upon the episode of Fringe that kicked this whole thing off. It's season three, episode twelve, "Concentrate and Ask Again". **


	5. Motive

Five: Motive

"John."

"John?"

"John!"

"What, Sherlock?" John exclaimed as he walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was bent over his microscope but straightened as John entered the room. The detective picked up a slim file from the table and handed it to his partner. John accepted the folder with a raised eyebrow and began to examine it as Sherlock paced around the kitchen, waving his hands about as he postulated.

"Dr Elliott Hammond, thirty-eight years old, British citizen, born in Chiswick. Parents divorced when he was thirteen, mother retained custody of their three children. Top marks in school, IQ forty points above average. PhD in biochemistry and molecular engineering, he was hired by the government in 2005 as a scientist for their weapons research and development program. He applied to work with Dr Schaffer and was selected in 2007 for Project Rust."

"Okay…" John started, thumbing through the documents. "So… what? What am I looking for?"

Sherlock snorted and rapped a hand against the table as he crossed behind it. "What are we always looking for, John? Motive, of course. Motive, motive, motive… someone like Dr Hammond would have a plan, a very meticulous plan."

"Unless he's a psychopath," John said. "What if he's just planting the bombs because… he gets off on it? You heard Mycroft say that Hammond was particularly adamant about their work with Project Rust."

"You're a trained medical professional, John. Look at his psychiatric evaluation…there's nothing to indicate any sort of extraordinary psychopathy, at least nothing beyond the levels you need in order to work for the government."

"So you think he was being driven by something?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock stated firmly. "Hammond is a learned man and every learned man has a motivation. A learned man will not be distracted by such notions as fate… no, he would have something in mind. And we need to find out what he was planning and why."

John was silent for a moment. "Why don't we go talk to some of his former members of the project? The ones that are still alive, anyway. Mycroft said three of them had died, three had left government employ—'''

"And four remain," Sherlock finished. "Excellent idea, John. They would be able to tell us more, I think, than any of his remaining family members."

"Any idea with whom we should start?" John asked.

Sherlock picked up another folder and opened it, flipping through the contents in a contemplative silence. After a few moments, his finger struck a spot on the page.

"Let's start with her," he said. "Dr Ariadne Watson… another Dr Watson, fancy that." John watched the pilot light flicker on behind Sherlock's eyes and the aquamarine orbs began to positively glow with enthusiasm. He was already on his phone texting Mycroft for an address while he walked over to the coat rack to gather their belongings. When the phone was slipped back into the pocket of his slim trousers, Sherlock pulled on his Belstaff and tossed John his coat.

"Come, John!" he called. "The game is on!"

* * *

Forty minutes later, the cab dropped them off outside a modest little London home belonging to Dr Watson and her husband. Sherlock rang the doorbell and they waited.

"Why her?" John asked.

Sherlock turned to face his blogger, his aristocratic lips quirked up into a thin smile. "She has dual doctorates in molecular biology and advanced chemistry, John. She might be able to tell us not only of Hammond's motives, but also more about Project Rust that we previously didn't know."

John nodded thoughtfully. Then his face broke out into a beaming smile and he elbowed Sherlock playfully in the ribs. "You picked her because it's Dr Watson, didn't you?"

Sherlock's face immediately turned down into a scowl, but John also noticed the dark pink blush spreading out from the detective's cheeks as he muttered, "Don't be absurd, John. I would never use such basic and sentimental criteria." But John merely chuckled and then turned his attention to the grey door that was opening in front of them.

Ariadne Watson was an unexpected woman. She was nearly as tall as Sherlock, for one, with a swimmer's physique and wide hands. She had flawless cocoa-coloured skin, but her eyes were a soft blue that shimmered with quiet intelligence. She flashed them a lovely smile.

"May I help you gentlemen?" she asked.

Sherlock offered his hand, which she accepted and shook firmly. "Dr Watson, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr John Watson."

Ariadne laughed as she shook John's hand. "Dr Watson," she greeted with a chuckle.

"Dr Watson," John echoed with a similar chuckle.

"Holmes and Watson," she mused with a grin. "On my doorstep… I must say that I am very pleased to meet you both, although your reputation suggests that your presence here is…" She trailed off and waved a hand in the air, searching for the right word. "Perhaps a cause for alarm," she finished.

Sherlock held up a hand in placation. "Dr Watson, I assure you that you are in no danger, and nor are you in any sort of trouble. We merely have a few questions for you about your work with the Ministry of Defence. Might we come in?"

Dr Watson's eyes tightened slightly—an action that both the doctor and the detective observed—but she bowed her head towards them and then stepped back over the threshold. "Of course," she said. "Please come in."

They were shown into her simple but tasteful sitting room, where her husband was busy at work at a desk against the wall, typing feverishly. A girl of perhaps ten was curled in the armchair with a book. Ariadne offered to take their coats while she introduced her family.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, my husband Sam and my daughter Emily." Both Sam and Emily looked up from what they were doing when the two men entered the room with Ariadne. Sam stood from his desk and went to shake hands with the detective and the doctor. Emily gave a polite nod and a shy smile before disappearing into another room.

"Is everything alright, Ari?" Sam asked.

Ariadne smiled and patted her husband's arm. "Everything's fine, Sam. They just need to ask me a few questions about my work with the MOD."

"We won't take up much of your time," John assured her.

Sam glanced between the three of them and then nodded. He pecked his wife on the cheek and then exited the room, calling for his daughter as he did so. Ariadne smiled at her guests and then gestured at the chairs while she took a seat on the sofa.

"So," she began. "You said you had questions about my work with the Ministry of Defence. And please, call me Ariadne."

Sherlock cut to the chase. "Ariadne, you were a team member on an assignment called Project Rust in 2007, under Dr Levi Schaffer. The project was tasked with designing a chemical element that would be released with regular detonation payloads. The chemical your team synthesized coated the interior of the shells and bonds with molecules in organic tissues, which triggers the chemical to begin to break down that organic tissue."

During Sherlock's speech, Ariadne's face had blanched slightly and her eyes widened. When he finished, she cleared her throat and stared hard at him. "How do you know all that?"

"I assure you, we have the highest clearances," Sherlock said.

Ariadne made a noise of disbelief in the back of her throat, but she folded her hands together and looked Sherlock in the eye again. "Yes, that was the basic summary of Project Rust. We called it Project Rust because the chemical we synthesised essentially acted as rust does over time. It oxidises the organic tissue and causes it to break down like rust breaks down metal. We accelerated the process and altered it to work on organic material. What of it?"

John held out an envelope to her, which she accepted and opened. She removed photos from the various car bombings and the degraded corpses from the morgue. She stared at the photos for a moment and then back to John.

"These are photos of the car bombings… it's all over the news. And these bodies… they exhibit the same tissue degeneration that we observed during our tests for the project." She looked at the photos again and pursed her lips, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Are you trying to tell me that these photos are… are linked? These corpses were the victims of the car bombings?"

"Obviously," Sherlock intoned. Ariadne flashed a hard look at him before exhaling sharply.

"You can't think I have anything to do with this," she stated. "That project was shut down years ago after Dr Schaffer died. We were all reassigned! The government never accepted our weapons designs anyway. The army never took them and we never spoke of it again. I haven't thought about that project in years. You honestly don't think I had anything to do with it?"

"If we did, we would have arrested you already," Sherlock deadpanned. Ariadne blinked slowly, but swallowed and nodded her head.

"Right. So… what do you need me for?"

"Ariadne," John said, "we have reason to believe that Dr Elliott Hammond is responsible for this. Four months ago, the raw materials that were leftover from Project Rust were stolen from storage, but none of the research was. Dr Hammond was Schaffer's second in command and from what we understand, a staunch supporter of the project."

"Oh, Elliott," Ariadne breathed. "You blithering idiot…"

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice firm. "What is it?"

"He did it," Ariadne breathed. "That crazy wanker actually did it."

"Did what?" Sherlock prompted.

Ariadne shook her head. "The Ministry of Defence shut down our project after Levi died in 2009. They told us it was because of his death… they said that the project would suffer without his leadership. That might have been true, but it wasn't the only reason. Right around the time of Levi's death, we were beginning to hear down the grapevine that the MOD was shutting us down because they'd lost faith in the project. They didn't think it would work effectively for one, but they also didn't think it would be cost-effective and all that. Only the military would fund something like that and then shut it down after we'd already done it. We were in the last stages of our testing when they shut us down. Elliott… well, it really wasn't a big secret around our metaphorical watercooler that Elliott and Levi were… involved romantically."

Ariadne set the photos down before she continued. "We all knew, but no one ever said anything about it. We didn't care, really… and if it all blew up Schaffer would have just replaced Elliott. He had no qualms about that. But Elliott was mad about Levi. I saw them once… when they thought no one was looking. I really think they were… in love. It was actually very sweet."

Ariadne's face fell a little. "Elliott was devastated when Levi died. I mean… absolutely crushed. I've never seen a man so utterly destroyed by the death of another. About two weeks after the funeral, we were in the lab working when Elliott came in to announce that they were officially shutting our project down. He… sort of had a fit in the middle of the lab… he kept going on about how they didn't appreciate Levi's work and that someday they'd see reason. Someday they'd see that Levi's work was effective and important. He had this look in his eye… something feral and animalistic. He was out for blood… or so it seemed. Security came and took him away and he went a little ballistic on them. We never heard from him again."

"That's what you remember?" John clarified, looking up from his notes.

Ariadne nodded. "After our team was dissolved, we fell out of touch with one another. A few of us left the government… I'd heard that a few others died from natural causes. I never thought about Project Rust after we'd been reassigned. I knew they'd taken all of our research and all the raw materials, but I didn't honestly care. It… wasn't something I liked to talk about."

"Why?" John asked.

Ariadne gave John a small smile. "I'm a scientist. I don't make weapons, Dr Watson. I never imagined that when I received my doctoral degrees that I would be making things that would… kill people. But the offer was… extraordinary and I couldn't refuse it. I thought the experience would look good on my resume and I needed to support my family." She bowed her head and stared at her hands. "But I cannot say that it was one of my proudest moments."

When she finished speaking, Sherlock stood abruptly. The motion caused Ariadne to stir and she and John stood to join the detective.

"Thank you for your time, Dr Watson," Sherlock said, shaking her hand again. "Your information was most helpful."

Ariadne nodded. "I'm glad I could help." She walked the pair to the door and showed them out. As they were walking away, they heard her calling from the stoop. She met them at the end of the walk and she gripped Sherlock by the elbows gently.

"Mr Holmes, if you do manage to find Elliott and speak to him… please be gentle. If he is indeed responsible for these terrible crimes, then he of course should pay the price for those acts. But please know… when he lost Levi, he became a broken man. As I said, I have never anyone so lost in the depths of their grief as Elliott. What he has done is wrong, of course… but I worked with him for long enough to know that this is not something Dr Hammond would ever do. He must not be well."

Sherlock stared at her, taking in the honest concern and the truth behind her statement from where it lay glittering in her gauzy blue eyes. After a moment, he nodded his head slowly and patted her on the shoulder. She released him and stepped away.

"I will do what I can, Ariadne," Sherlock said. John nodded gravely to her in a silent agreement. She nodded to the both of them and then retreated back into her home. The two men watched her retreat and then continued down the walk in silence.

"As I have said before, John," Sherlock observed, "love is much more vicious motivator."


	6. A Broken Man

**Another disclaimer... I am really quite terrible at fight choreography/chase scenes. Please forgive any weirdness or inaccuracies. Pretend that it's all Hollywood magic and everything works out perfectly! :D**

* * *

Six: A Broken Man

"Call Lestrade and have him meet us at this address," Sherlock said as he passed his phone over to John once they'd slipped into the cab.

"And what address is this?" John asked as he took the device and pulled out his own mobile.

"Hammond's, of course. We've got enough information from Dr Watson to at least warrant a visit to question him." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin as he thought for a moment. "If Hammond is indeed the person behind these attacks, then I believe that we haven't heard the last from him."

John paused his typing on the mobile and regarded his partner with a raised eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"If what Ariadne said is at all accurate, we've got a somewhat mentally unstable scientist who is hell-bent upon proving that his late partner's work was effective and worthy. Love being the vicious motivator, Hammond would have wanted to prove his point thoroughly. But because he is also a scientist, he would have delegated his revenge into testable sections."

"What are you on about?" John asked.

"I'm saying, John," Sherlock continued, "that if Hammond was planting bombs as a means of testing or experimentation to prove that Project Rust was effective, he would need more than one test."

"Every experiment needs repetition for better proof," John breathed as the realisation sunk in.

Sherlock tapped the doctor's nose with his forefinger. "Precisely, John. He would have needed to rebuild the weapons and then test them before going forth with his final product."

"He's going to plant another bomb… or series of bombs." Something hard flashed in John's eyes and Sherlock watched as the doctor's mouth set into a firm line and then he proceeded to punch away at the buttons on his mobile. John held the phone to his ear as the cab raced back through London.

"Lestrade?" John said. "I need you to meet us at an address…"

* * *

Twenty minutes later, a cavalcade of policemen were traipsing around Elliott Hammond's residence, a division of Mycroft's agents following them around complaining about everything they were doing. Sherlock was following both teams around, complaining about all of them. If it weren't for the gravity of the situation, John would have found it quite hilarious.

As it turned out, there was no sight of the scientist anywhere in his house, so now the arduous process of evidence collection was beginning. So far, they hadn't found anything to connect Hammond to the thefts from the warehouse or the bombings in London. John was standing in the middle of the man's bedroom, carefully taking in all of the sights. It was plainly furnished in soft masculine hues, the only adornments being a watercolour triptych and a gilded mirror. John was going through the contents of Hammond's dresser when Sherlock entered the room in a huff, followed shortly by Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"This is so not my division, Sherlock," Lestrade was saying. "I mean, I'm just as happy as the next inspector to help track down this psychopath that's been planting bloody car bombs in downtown London, but really…" He scrubbed a hand through his silver hair and blew out a breath. "But you can't start yelling at me when I'm not even technically supposed to be here in the first place! Why'd you even call me anyway?"

"Isn't this just what we do?" Sherlock asked. "You call me to crime scenes, I solve the crime, your team stews in their idiocy, you and John say 'Brilliant!', I say 'Elementary', and then we all go home?"

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose and counted to ten. "Yes, Sherlock… that's how it works. Except you called me, remember?"

Sherlock made an impatient noise and waved his hands about. "You… you're less stupid than Mycroft's agents and the police," he muttered. "At least if you are here, I might get some kind of intelligent conversation today."

"Hey!" John declared.

"Obviously I wasn't speaking about you, John," Sherlock said with an eye-roll.

"Sherlock did you just compliment me?" Lestrade asked with a strange little look on his face.

Sherlock scoffed and flopped himself down on the bed. "Don't be absurd, Lestrade," he muttered.

The detective inspector stifled a grin and instead turned to face John, who had just risen from the bottom dresser drawer with a thin binder clutched in his hand.

"What's that, John?" he asked. Sherlock sat up on the bed and cocked an eyebrow at his partner.

John flipped open the book and looked through its contents. "Photo album," he said as he walked over towards the other men, flipping through the pages as he went. Most of the pictures were older… some of people John assumed to be Hammond's parents and siblings and other close friends and family. However, towards the back of the book, there were only pictures of Hammond with another man. The pictures showed them hugging and laughing and smiling… the other man could only be Levi Schaffer. John handed the book over to Sherlock.

"Photos of Schaffer and Hammond. It looks like Dr Watson was right about their love for one another."

"Dr Watson?" Lestrade asked.

"A colleague of Hammond's," John clarified.

Sherlock examined the photos and then passed the book off to Lestrade. "Sentiment," he muttered under his breath. "There's nothing here. He must have used another place to do all of the work… a warehouse or something. We've got to find him before—'''

He cut off as something flashed in the window at the corner of his eye. John saw it too and spun to face the glass. A human figure darted past the window on the porch roof and began to clamber down the side of the house via the drainpipe.

"He's still here!" John shouted. "He's still here!" The three men burst forth in a flurry of activity. Lestrade dashed through the bedroom door and downstairs, calling to the officers and the agents as he went. John followed on his heels, but Sherlock had darted to the window and thrown it open. He climbed out on to the roof and tried to follow Hammond, climbing down the pipe.

Hammond had shimmied down the pipe and had leapt off and into the backyard, tucking and rolling into the grass. Sherlock was behind him, landing in the grass himself as Hammond took off across the yard, sprinting to the row of yew hedges lining the edge of the property. John and Lestrade burst forth from the back door as Sherlock took off after the scientist. Hammond, who was very spry for a man his age, darted through the hedge and vaulted over the gate, using an old tree stump to gain height. Sherlock used the same stump to follow Hammond over the gate, but as the two men spilled into the street behind the house, something unexpected happened.

As soon as Hammond had landed after jumping the gate, he took off into the street. What he failed to notice was the oncoming car that had just rounded the corner. The car slammed into Hammond with a sickening crunch and time screeched to a halt. Sherlock skidded to a stop in front of the man's mangled body. The driver was climbing out of the car and shouting something about not seeing him. John and Lestrade were on the scene within seconds.

John gingerly rolled the man over so as to check his vital signs. Sherlock was on his knees beside the doctor, watching him work and waiting for an assessment. Lestrade was shouting at the policemen and the agents, telling them to call for an ambulance. In the midst of the chaos, Sherlock took the time to block out all the sounds and focus solely on the scientist lying in the street, now broken and bloodied.

Hammond's frame was thin and almost gaunt, more skeletal than he was in his government ID photos. There were dark circles under his eyes and a healthy smattering of wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. His hair had grown and hung around his ears, tangled but clean and dark brown in colour. He had at least a week's worth of scruff growing on his face and his clothing was dishevelled (in addition to the blood and dirt from the chase). He'd been busy then… busy enough that he hadn't noticed that he needed a shave. Sherlock noted some staining around his fingertips that was neither blood nor dirt… probably traces of the chemical elements he'd been working with.

"He's alive," John was saying. "He's barely alive, but he is indeed alive. Both legs broken, at least five broken ribs, maybe a partially collapsed lung, god knows what other internal injuries…"

"Will he live, John?" Sherlock asked. The man lying half-dead before them had many, many questions to answer and he couldn't do that if he was dead. If they couldn't find his next set of bombs…

"Will he live?" Sherlock repeated.

John fixed him with an unreadable, blue-eyed stare. "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know."

* * *

**And there you have it. Now the foundation is laid and the really interesting stuff is coming. :) **

**PS... Can I get a show of hands from everyone who was severely emotionally compromised after seeing the new trailer? Get the shock blankets and put the kettle on, kids... it's going to be a bumpy ride. That four second glimpse of John's sad-angry-terrified face almost made me stroke out. **


	7. A Significant Problem

Seven: A Significant Problem

Time seemed exceptionally slow as Sherlock allowed John to dab at the small cuts on his hands from where they sat in the back of the second ambulance. Policemen and government agents were swarming about, babbling at each other in raised but professional voices. The leader of Mycroft's agents—one Agent Carroway—had taken point on the clean-up and thankfully, no one was fighting for control. Technically… their objective had been achieved; Dr Elliott Hammond was in custody.

There was just the minor problem of his multiple, massive injuries and his loss of consciousness.

The first ambulance had raced off with Elliott Hammond approximately fifty-four minutes ago. The medics had been tossing out all manners of medical jargon, but from what he'd been able to hear, John's initial triage hadn't been far off. Hammond had sustained multiple broken bones, countless contusions and lacerations, was suffering from internal bleeding, and most likely had a severe concussion. When they'd left the scene, he was still unresponsive and barely breathing.

Bollocks.

Sherlock could feel the beginnings of a migraine lingering in the front of his head, but a sharp pricking near his wrist distracted him and he flinched reflexively as his mind was brought back to the present. He looked down at his hands where John was still cleaning out splinters and other debris from the cuts he'd sustained climbing down the drainpipe.

"Sorry," John muttered, focussed on his work.

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement and retreated back into thought as John finished and wrapped his hands in gauze and secured it with tape. He was vaguely aware that John was now talking to someone off to his right, but it wasn't until a finger poked into his arm that he surfaced again into the land of the living.

"What?" he grumbled.

John made a face at the tone of his voice, but shook it off and said, "Agent Carroway is going to the hospital now to check on Hammond's condition. He wants to know if we want to tag along."

Sherlock stood immediately from his perch. "Of course," he said. "Hammond holds the key to this case. If he's conscious, we must see him immediately."

"Sherlock," John said, holding up a hand. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. He sustained multiple injuries and probably has a massive concussion. He's been at the hospital for only about twenty minutes. The only thing we'll find out whenever we get there is whether or not he's dead. We won't be able to talk to him for another… day or so if I had to guess."

An impatient noise tunnelled its way out of Sherlock's throat, coming out as a growl and a groan, which effectively startled the agents who happened to be passing the pair of them at that moment.

"Fine," the detective growled. "But at least I could look at his clothing and his skin… I could deduce where he's been working and with what. It could give us a lead."

John made a motion with his hand. "After you." The doctor followed Sherlock as he stalked over to where Agent Will Carroway was standing with a cluster of his men. The agent noticed the sour detective approaching and dismissed his fellow agents with a nod of his head and a quick word. The group had dissipated by the time Sherlock reached him.

"Mr Holmes?" Carroway inquired.

"Agent…" Sherlock started.

"Carroway," John clarified.

"Yes, Agent Carroway." Sherlock eyed the man up and down in a not-so-subtle fashion before continuing to speak. John noticed that Carroway—instead of flinching away from Sherlock's penetrating glance-over—held himself even more upright, even turning himself to present the whole picture for Sherlock's review. Sherlock was apparently satisfied with whatever subtle notes he found in Carroway's posture and demeanour, for he gave a small sniff and a nod of his head before he began to talk.

"I understand that you are going to the hospital to check on Hammond," Sherlock said.

"That's right," Carroway said. "Mr Holmes requested an update on his condition. The other Mr Holmes," he clarified. "I'm leaving now. Would you and Doctor Watson care to accompany me?"

"Obviously," Sherlock droned. John swallowed a retort and instead gave a quick nod of his head to the agent.

"Right," Carroway said. "This way then, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson." The agent led them to a boxy SUV parked at the edge of the crime scene and drove them away.

The majority of the ride was spent in contemplative silence by all three men, interrupted only by the soft clacking of Sherlock's phone keys as he typed into it and the hum of the vehicle's engines. John was lost in reflection on the curious case of Elliott Hammond and his relationship with Levi Schaffer as a motive for planting car bombs in London. Sherlock's thoughts on the matter ("love is a much more vicious motivator") were ringing in his ears. Hammond's love for Schaffer must have been something quite profound if the grief from his death had turned him into some kind of psychotic bomber. John felt a pang of near-sympathy for Hammond. The three years in which John was under the impression that he'd lost Sherlock had been grim years indeed, even if they hadn't been anything but best friends at that point. It was a curious thing, grief. Some people picked up and carried on. Some became empty, withered shells of their former selves. Some became psychotic murderers. Some grew moustaches.

"Do you think he'll be alright, Dr Watson?" Carroway asked as he pulled into a parking space outside the hospital.

John shook himself out of his reverie and considered the agent's question. "I'm not sure. His injuries were very severe… and head trauma is always a serious concern. It'll be touch and go for a while until they can get the internal bleeding under control and assess the damage from the concussion."

The three men entered the hospital and were directed to the critical care ward. They were informed that Hammond had been out of surgery for about twenty minutes and the internal bleeding had been taken care of. The nurse at the desk had been unable to divulge any other information, so they took the lifts to the correct ward. When they managed to find their way to the wing, they were stopped by a robust nurse with platinum blonde hair and a lilting Swedish accent.

"We're here to see Doctor Elliott Hammond," Agent Carroway said as he flashed his credentials towards the nurse.

The nurse—Olga—pursed her lips in agitation and frowned, shaking her head as she did so. "No, no… Dr Hammond is in critical condition, he can be seen by no one."

"It is urgent that we see him," John tried. He flashed his credentials at the woman next. "It's okay, I'm a doctor. I won't let them touch anything important."

Olga remained persistent. "I'm sorry, doctor. The patient is still being seen to, and I have been instructed that no one shall see him."

"Your patient," Sherlock sneered, "is a suspect in a series of car bombings in central London. It is imperative that we see him immediately."

A flash of recognition sparked in Olga's eyes, and she pursed her lips further together in thought. The three men could see her waffling around her decision, so Sherlock took a step forward, intending to persuade her further, when the familiar sound of an umbrella clacking on tile made its presence known.

Mycroft Holmes entered the scene like a caped crusader descending on the scene of a crime. Carroway took a step closer to his superior, as henchmen are wont to do. John remained passive, as the curious bystander. Sherlock flashed a glare at his brother before returning his face to a mask of barely-concealed impatience.

"Nurse Halvorsen, it is a matter of national security that these men attend to the bedside of Dr Elliott Hammond immediately," Mycroft said with an air of finality. He didn't need to show the woman any kind of paperwork and nor did Olga ask for any. Somehow, he had that effect on people.

"But…" Olga started.

"Nurse Halvorsen," Mycroft deadpanned. "We must speak to him."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," a new voice called. All four men and Olga turned to look at the doctor, still in surgical scrubs, making his way towards them. When he approached, he shook hands with all four men, introducing himself as Dr Mallory.

"Dr Mallory," Mycroft began. "It is a matter of national importance that we speak to Dr Hammond as soon as possible."

"I will also need his clothes and his personal effects," Sherlock added.

"May I ask why?" Dr Mallory queried.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Dr Hammond is a suspect in a manner of national importance. The matter is time-sensitive, so you must understand our urgency."

Dr Mallory crossed his arms and nodded. "Oh I'm definitely sensing the urgency. But I'm afraid it really is out of the question. You won't be able to speak to Elliott Hammond any time soon."

Sherlock let out a hissing noise. "And why is that, Doctor?"

To his credit, Mallory neither lost his temper or his cool as he was stared down upon by the consulting detective and the British government. Instead, he looked them both in the eye and then said, "I'm afraid that Dr Elliott Hammond is in a coma. And it's very unlikely that he will ever recover."

* * *

**Hi. :) So, thank you so much for your patience with me and the elongated update times. The holiday season for a practicing musician means gigs out the yazoo and absolutely zero time to think about anything else. This presents a rather significant problem when you write fan fiction. **


	8. The Andante

Eight: The Andante

John nursed a Styrofoam cup of weak hospital tea while Sherlock paced the length of the lounge over and over. The detective was scowling and rubbing his hands impatiently as he paced, and John could practically hear the gears in his mind shrieking with frustration. Hammond's death would have certainly posed a challenge in the quest to find answers and stop biochemical weapons from being discharged in London. But Dr Hammond wasn't dead… the answers to everything they wanted to know were right there… right underneath the surface, but inaccessible. John knew the agonising closeness yet inaccessibility of the solution to the puzzle was driving Sherlock mad.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and then threw himself into the chair next to John with an irritated huff, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing his head back to rest upon the crown of the chair.

"Tea?" John offered weakly, pushing the cup of lukewarm liquid towards Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his head to the side to frown at him before snorting indignantly. "This is no time for tea, John."

"Right." John reached for the cup again and held it between his hands, tapping the sides in a rare display of anxiety.

After some moments, Sherlock raised his head and asked, "Where's Mycroft gone to?"

"He stepped into the hall ten minutes ago with his mobile," John said. "Fielding phone calls from the prime minister, probably."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed again, sinking back into the chair indignantly. Silence encompassed the lounge, broken only by the distant sounds of the hospital. John picked up the medical file for Elliott Hammond and scanned the pages for a third time. Sherlock looked over in a half-veiled interest.

"There's really no way he's coming out of it," John stated.

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered. "His brain is swelled and haemorrhaging… he'll be lucky if he survives the week."

"So there's no way we're going to get to talk to him."

Sherlock snorted. "You do have a penchant for stating the obvious, John."

John ignored the barb and pressed on. "Yeah, but Sherlock… if Hammond planted other bombs, we'll never find them without him. They could be anywhere."

"Again, John," Sherlock said. "Obvious." He folded his hands under his chin in the classic Holmesian thinking pose.

John exhaled loudly and flipped the file shut. "I'm just trying to help, Sherlock. You shouldn't have to do this alone." He stood from his chair and paced over to the window to look out at the street and cool off for a moment. As a result, he didn't see Sherlock slowly lower his hands and sit up in his chair, his face blank as the pieces assembled themselves in his head, a quiet 'oh!' escaping his lips. In fact, John didn't see Sherlock at all, really, but instead felt the presence of the taller man behind him. John turned to face him and was rewarded with armfuls of consulting detective as Sherlock hugged him tightly.

Sherlock disengaged and held John at arm's length, his eyes glinting with the familiar fire of a man on the hunt. "Sometimes you really are the most luminous conductor of light, John."

John raised an eyebrow. "What have I done?"

Sherlock was already lost in his expostulation. "Alone, John! Hammond couldn't have done this alone… it's just too much! He would have brought in another person at least to help him assemble and distribute the toxin." He released John and resumed pacing frantically in the space in front of John.

"I was so focussed on Hammond and his motives that I didn't see what was right in front of me! He needed accomplices, John, he would have had them. There were four scientists from Project Rust that hadn't died or left government employ. Hammond fit our profile because of his romantic attachment to Schaffer as well as his fervent attachment to the project itself. But we never ruled out the other three! They could be his accomplices!"

At that moment, Mycroft entered the room, devoid of umbrella and clutching his mobile tightly. He was immediately set upon by his younger brother, who launched a vocal tirade at the man without stopping to breathe.

"There you are, Mycroft. I need the names and files of the other scientists from Project Rust immediately. Hammond wouldn't have worked alone… he needed help, the work was just to extravagant. If we can identify Hammond's accomplices then we can find the other bombs before they detonate."

"Sherlock," Mycroft started.

"Off you pop, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted. "Not a moment to lose! We can still make this work even though Hammond's in a coma. We just need to identify his co-conspirators and stop them before they set off another bomb!"

"I'm afraid it's a little late for that, Sherlock," Mycroft intoned softly.

* * *

Five fresh skeletons littered the stainless steel slabs in the morgue. Empty eye sockets glared accusingly at the ceilings and mouths still filled with pitted teeth grinned mockingly. Pathologists in biohazard suits wandered about the room, collecting samples and jotting down notes. Molly Hooper turned to the assembled crowd standing in the observation deck, adjusting her own suit as she did so.

"As far as we can tell, the toxin acts as a sort of phage bacteria. When it comes into contact with organic tissue, it eats away at that tissue until there's nothing left. When the toxin runs out of tissue to digest, it dies."

"Have you found a way to confirm it?" Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off the scene in the morgue.

Molly nodded. "Detective Inspector Lestrade's people found some living toxin still left in the device they found. We were able to collect a sample and we tested it on a chicken wing and a rat from the lab… the toxin attacks the tissue—dead or alive—and dissolves it until nothing remains."

She picked up an electronic tablet and pulled up a series of photos. Sherlock and John huddled around the screen while Mycroft and Lestrade looked on from over their shoulders. The photos revealed a slim silver canister, open at one end and dusted with an orange-red powder.

"The canister was found inside the lift," Molly explained. "It released the toxin into the air and killed all five people inside. We've also compared this strain of the toxin with the first samples we gathered from the car bombs. This particular version of the compound was designed to interact directly with organic tissue on impact. The first strain of the compound was delayed… made to act some hours after the original detonation."

"The device was on a timer," Mycroft added. "And the CCTV from the lift itself had been disabled. However, we were able to pick up the culprits from additional footage around the building. No clear images of their faces, so no chance of using that to identify them. But, we checked the other three scientists from Project Rust as you requested, Sherlock. Their alibis are clear… Hammond didn't use his former teammates in this."

"So essentially," Sherlock summarised, "we have nothing. Dr Hammond is in a coma, his accomplice or accomplices are still unidentified, the toxin can be used in conjunction with a bomb or independently, said toxin can also be activated immediately or hours afterward, and we have absolutely nothing to go on."

"That about summarises the situation, yes," Mycroft added, with a hint of acid in his voice.

"This was just another test," John said. "They wanted to see if the toxin could be used by itself… as well as whether it would act immediately upon release. They're expanding the parameters of the experiment."

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "First came the _allegro_ to get our attention," he said. "Now comes the _andante_ to keep us in suspense."

"What happens next?" Lestrade asked out of reflex.

Sherlock turned to face the inspector. "The finale."

* * *

**Disclaimer: I'm not a biologist or biochemist! :) I just make this sh** up as I go along. **

**So that newest trailer for series three, eh? 0.0 I watched it, screamed, and then threw my phone and proceeded to hyperventilate for about 17 seconds. I am going to cry like a little b**** when this actually happens. There should be a worldwide mass distribution of shock blankets and tea before this thing. **


	9. Science Fiction

Nine: Science Fiction

_Biochemical toxin; acts like phage bacteria, digesting any organic tissue living or dead._

_Toxin can be utilised via an attachment to an explosive device with the compound altered to release several hours after detonation. Toxin can also be dispersed as a solo chemical weapon through the air. Chemical traced to Dr Elliott Hammond and Project Rust via the Ministry of Defence. Dr Hammond in coma after… accident. Secondary testing of toxin as a solo chemical weapon enacted after Dr Hammond's coma, indicating that he had associates. Former associates in Project Rust questioned, results show alibis hold for all of them. _

_Conclusion: biochemical toxin formerly belonging to the British military in the hands of a rogue group bent on some sort of revenge campaign in the name of Dr Levi Schaffer and Dr Elliott Hammond. Unknown number of culprits, although total most likely not exceeding four so as to not draw unwanted attention. Two successful tests of toxin dispersal used, most likely culminating in a finale that will be demonstratively destructive, most likely using a combination of the two dispersal methods. Only person with information about that finale in a coma and unlikely to awake. _

_Likelihood of finding and terminating the plan without Hammond's knowledge: very unlikely. Less than 7% chance of success. _

_Shit. _

Sherlock stepped out of his mind palace and was brought slowly to reality by the familiar sounds of John stepping out of his shoes and hanging up his coat. Sherlock listened for a few minutes more as the doctor went into the kitchen and busied himself putting away three… no, four—bags of the shopping. The sounds of domesticity did nothing to soothe the frantic beast that clawed anxiously inside Sherlock's chest in its never-ending search for the answer to the problem.

With an angry snarl, Sherlock launched himself from the couch on which he was laying with a sudden burst of energy and strode across the room to the desk. He opened the drawer and picked up the service weapon inside that belonged to one Captain John Watson and began to load the clip. Said clip was full and being rammed home into the weapon itself when the captain himself appeared and snatched it from the tetchy detective's hands.

"Give it to me, John," Sherlock growled.

"Absolutely not, Sherlock," John countered. "You are not going to shoot holes in the bloody wall. I just patched the last round you put in there and I'll not have you mess it up again."

The detective growled low in his throat again and flung himself moodily into the armchair. John seated himself in the chair opposite and stared at his partner. He recognised the signs of pure agitation—the moodiness, the twitchiness, the unfathomable urge to shoot the wall—but John couldn't help but notice that this time it was not borne out of boredom. This sort of agitation was the frustration of not being able to solve a puzzle.

"How can I help?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Find me the driver of the car that struck Hammond."

"As if that would help," John said. "Hammond was the one that ran out into traffic."

Another sound of impatience tore from Sherlock's throat and he shifted in the chair so that he was sitting back on his haunches, the perfect picture of edginess.

John tried again. "Sherlock, what can I—'''

"There's nothing we can do, John, can't you see?!" Sherlock exploded. "Hammond is in a coma, there's no leads to give us answers on who his compatriots were, no CCTV footage, no fingerprints… absolutely nothing! I've gone over the scene at the elevator with my finest of fine-tooth combs, John, and I've found nothing. Nothing!" The agitated detective stood once more from the chair and paced an anxious circle in front of the fireplace. John watched quietly, allowing Sherlock to work through it.

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock asked quietly, stopping in front of the fire itself, crackling in the hearth. "A lot of people are going to die. There's no doubt in my mind that something is coming. Something is going to happen and hundreds, maybe thousands, will perish. And there's absolutely nothing we can do to stop it."

"Isn't there… a protection detail or something we can activate?" John asked. "If Hammond was going after the MOD officials that shut down Project Rust… can't we… get them some protection?"

"We could," Sherlock mused. "But how effective would it actually be? In theory, they wouldn't even need to be in the direct line fire. The first test of the toxin was attached to car bombs and could easily be attached to other such devices… devices that don't need to be handled directly. The other test dispersed the toxin from a canister and the dust was released into the air. All they would have to do would be to get in the same proximity and it would be effective. Not to mention the fact that others would die as well, no matter what method they used."

Sherlock sat in his chair again, but this time with a weariness that defied his actual age. He clasped his fingers under his chin and fixed John with another look. "The only real solution I can think of is to talk to Hammond. He's the only one who knows the answers… the people, the plan, the motive…"

John leaned forward in his chair. "But Sherlock… Hammond's coma is…indefinite. Even if he survives past this week…hell, past this day, he won't be coming out of it. Not any time soon. You'd have to learn telepathy if you wanted to talk to him now."

The doctor scrubbed his face tiredly and then gave a soft chuckle. "Not even you can read minds, Sherlock. No one can."

"Actually," came Mycroft's voice from the front door, "that may not be entirely accurate."

* * *

Sherlock waited very politely and very impatiently while Mycroft sipped at the cup of tea that John had given him. His older brother had barged into their flat, made his ridiculous announcement, and then had made him wait for a whole four minutes while John fetched him tea. Now that the man had the dark amber brew in his hands, Sherlock's already thin patience was grinding to a halt.

"You were saying?" Sherlock prompted through gritted teeth.

Mycroft stared into the cup of tea for a moment longer before fixing Sherlock with a look that he instantly recognised. It was the look of a man who is about to divulge information that he will surely regret later.

"You know how I can talk to Hammond," Sherlock stated. He felt a fluttery feeling in his stomach as the endorphins from the prospect of a good chase kicked into gear.

"A correction, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I do not know if you be able to talk to Hammond. It might not work."

"What might not work?" Sherlock questioned, eyes burning with unrepentant need and curiosity.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and tapped on the device a few times before answering. "Tell me, dear brother, do you know anything about an American scientist named Dr Walter Bishop?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers together in thought, sinking temporarily into his data banks, but finding no such record of anyone with that name. He shook his head to indicate as such.

Mycroft nodded and scrolled through the file on his phone. "Dr Walter Bishop… American scientist and inventor, formerly a lecturer at Harvard University in Boston. He and his associate, Dr William Bell, were pioneers in the area of fringe science in the 1970s. Dr Bell went on to found the company called Massive Dynamic, a corporation on the leading edge of medical, communications, energy, transportation, and entertainment technology."

"Hang on," John said. "What's fringe science?"

"Fringe science," Sherlock mused. "It's a branch of scientific inquiry that reaches beyond orthodoxy and common boundaries to find answers. Fringe science departs from mainstream theories and sometimes dances on the fringe of normal academic discipline." A slow grin appeared on his face. "Dr Bishop sounds like my kind of scientist. Continue, Mycroft."

"As it happens, Dr Bishop's unorthodox methods had landed him a position with the United States government as an experimental scientist, where Bishop was in charge of several projects during the 70s and 80s. One such project was a trial of a nootropic drug called Cortexiphan, created to enhance the mental abilities of the host."

"What were the results of that trial?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft fixed Sherlock with a look. "They were inconclusive, according to the official records."

"And what about the unofficial results?" Sherlock prompted.

Mycroft blinked. "Apparently, such results as pyrokinesis, telekinesis, mind control, the ability to cross between universes, and telepathy were recorded in the test subjects." Sherlock's eyes glittered in anticipation.

"Hang on just a moment," John spluttered. "Mind control? Telekinesis? Crossing between…between universes? How can that possibly… that's straight from science fiction, Mycroft!"

"Science fiction?" Mycroft asked. "John, you live in London… a city that seems to have a strange proclivity towards attracting alien life forms. Need I remind you of the Christmas Day invasion? Canary Wharf?" Mycroft shook his head. "Compared to the things we've seen as Londoners, I would have thought that such trivial things as telepathy and pyrokinesis wouldn't be an issue."

Mycroft turned his attention back to his younger brother. "Dr Bishop was interred in a mental hospital for seventeen years after the death of his lab assistant. He was released a couple of years ago into the custody of his son and an FBI agent named Olivia Dunham after an incident left a plane full of people dead and with translucent corpses. Dr Bishop was called out to consult. Dr Bishop and his son Peter have been consultants with the Department of Homeland Security ever since. Agent Dunham and the Bishops are a part of the 'fringe division' within that department. They solve cases that have a… touch of the extraordinary about them."

"What makes you think that Dr Bishop would be able to help us?" John asked.

Mycroft smiled. "Because Dr Bishop and his team have already solved a case very similar to this in almost exactly the same manner."

Sherlock stood from his chair and paced in front of the fire again, the information whirring in his head. It was completely ludicrous… illogical… mad. But it might just be the solution to their problem.

"I think you should do whatever voodoo you do, Mycroft, to get Dr Walter Bishop to London immediately," Sherlock said.

* * *

**Okay so a few things of note:**

**1.) Wooo! We're actually going to meet Dr Bishop and the Fringe cast in the next chapter! (Finally! I hadn't the foggiest idea it would stretch this long!)**

**2.) It's kind of my headcanon that all the fandom things occur in the same universe. So in my mind... time-traveling aliens and Cybermen and consulting detectives and Fringe Division and fallen angels and Steve Carlsburg... all of that is happening in the same universe, same timeline. If some of it doesn't make sense temporally... just shhh. Time is more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey...stuff. **

**:) Thanks for reading, y'all. **


	10. Dr Walter Bishop

**Alright. :) Fellow Fringies, here it is. If you are familiar with the Fringe universe, this will take place somewhere after 3/14 "6B" and before 3/16 "Os". If you are not familiar with Fringe, don't worry. The story in the Fringe characters is not vital to the Sherlock plot. But just so you know… the characters are: Dr Walter Bishop, his son Peter Bishop, Agent Olivia Dunham, Agent Astrid Farnsworth, and Agent Phillip Broyles. If you are not a Fringe person and I've overdone it a bit or not explained anything thoroughly enough... please, let me know!  
**

* * *

Ten: Dr Walter Bishop

**Harvard University. Boston, Massachusetts, USA.**

"Astro! Where is the dimethyl iodine?"

Astrid Farnsworth looked up from her paperwork as Walter came dashing into the lab, a pair of welding goggles sitting askew on the top of his head and the front of his lab coat charred with soot. He was holding a beaker of violet liquid in one hand and a piece of red liquorice in the other.

"Walter, what are you doing?!" Astrid exclaimed. "What happened to your coat?" She squinted harder at his face. "And your eyebrows?"

"What'd he do to his eyebrows now?" Astrid looked towards the door as Peter and Olivia entered, faces pink from the cold. Peter walked over to Walter and spun the scientist around, clicking his tongue as he took in Walter's singed eyebrows and the sooty coat. Peter removed the vial of liquid from Walter's hand and slotted it in a rack on the table.

"I thought we agreed that you wouldn't blow anything up for at least two weeks, Walter," Peter admonished.

Walter frowned. "Don't be silly, Peter, I didn't make anything explode."

"Then what happened?" Astrid asked.

"Well whatever it was," Olivia called from the back room, "we're going to need to get another toaster."

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Walter, what did you stick in the toaster this time?"

Walter pursed his lips tightly in a gesture of indignation, but it didn't stop the look of fleeting guilt that also crossed his face. He muttered something under his breath before biting off a chunk of the red candy in his hand.

"What was that?" Peter pushed.

"I said, there was no way I could have known that those fibre optic cables were so easily flammable," Walter grumbled. "They really should make clearer labels for things like that."

At that moment, Olivia stepped into the lab from the back office, snapping her phone shut as she did.

"We're about to have company," she announced to the group.

"Company?" Peter asked.

"Excellent!" Walter cried. "I'll make some custard. Asterisk, I'll need a can of condensed milk and the Bunsen burner. Who's coming, Olivia? Do they like custard?"

A new voice echoed in the lab. "No custard, thank you. But I'd love a cup of tea, if you happen to have any."

In the doorway, Agent Broyles stood with two other men in dark suits. Broyles nodded his head towards Olivia, who returned the gesture. Broyles led the two men down to the main floor of the lab and began the introductions.

"I've had an old friend in the British government call me for a favour," Broyles said. He indicated the two men to his left. "These are Agents Carroway and Ferguson."

Olivia shook their hands, asking, "MI-5?"

Carroway shook his head. "Not exactly."

Olivia's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but she took the information in stride. After all, she worked for Fringe Division… that wasn't something that necessarily got announced either. "What can we do for you?" she asked.

"Dr Bishop's presence has been requested for an urgent matter in London," Broyles said.

"A fringe case?" Peter asked.

"Not exactly," Carroway said again with a small smile. "The case itself is relatively… simple. I assume that you've heard something about the recent car bombings that took place in central London?"

Olivia nodded. "Yes, I heard. Five car bombs, all at different locations in the city, all detonated at the same time. I was sorry to hear of it."

Carroway nodded. "What you didn't hear was what happened after and consequently what happened the next day." Carroway gave the lab a perfunctory glance. "Is there somewhere we might be able to sit down?"

Ten minutes later, all seven people were gathered around the large table in the office and staring at a projection on the wall. The projection showed the photos from the first victims, their flesh missing and their skeletons yellowed and waxy. Carroway mutely ran through the rest of the macabre slide show, which featured more photographs of the toxin's victims and several photos of the doctors and scientists in their biohazard suits working around them. When the pictures flashed to the canister full of red powder, Carroway spoke again.

"Hours after the initial bombings, our pathologists indicated that the bodies were being stripped of their organic material, as if something was causing the tissue to disintegrate… like rust in fast-forward motion. The toxin that was identified was linked to an old military project… an experiment with biochemical warfare that was shut down in 2009. Four weeks ago, a warehouse was burgled and several of the raw materials from Project Rust—as it was called—were stolen. We were able to discover a link to a scientist named Dr Elliott Hammond… we suspect that Hammond was building these biochemical weapons as an act of retaliation for shutting down the project."

"Why retaliation?" Peter asked. Olivia nodded in concurrence.

"Dr Hammond was romantically involved with the project leader, the late Dr Levi Schaffer," Carroway said. "The MOD shut down the project because…well, honestly, they lost faith in Schaffer and his mission. Schaffer died soon after from an embolism in his brain and Hammond was distraught, to say the very least. One of his former associates claimed that Hammond had said that he'd 'make them see reason' and that their work was too important to be stopped."

"You think he's making good on that promise," Walter stated coolly, a deep frown creasing his face.

Carroway nodded. "We do. When we attempted to apprehend Dr Hammond for questioning, he ran…ran right into the path of an oncoming vehicle. He was struck down and he's been in a coma ever since. He won't wake again and the doctors are hesitant to say that he'll even live past the end of this week."

Olivia felt a shiver crawl down her spine and she repressed the urge to physically wriggle in her seat. This was all sounding extremely familiar… much like the case they'd just wrapped up a few weeks ago with the powder that disintegrated bone. "What do you need from us?" she asked.

Ferguson stood next to Carroway and answered. "Two hours after Hammond was injured, the same toxin was released into a lift, killing all five of its living occupants. We believe that the perpetrators were conducting tests…experiments…on the delivery methods for the toxin. As such, we have reason to believe that Hammond had accomplices and that they will carry out their mission even without him. We think they're going to strike soon…in full retaliation using both dispersal methods for the powder. Hundreds could die… and we have nothing to go on because Hammond is in a coma."

Carroway took a slim folder from his case and slid it to Walter, who accepted it with a puzzled expression. "Dr Bishop, my employer knows about the work you did on a recent case involving a toxin much like the one we are facing in London. You were able to use one of the Cortexiphan subjects to read the mind of your suspect, who was also in a coma. We think you might be able to do the same thing for us, so that we might identify Hammond's accomplices or pieces to his plan."

Walter frowned up at the agent. "How do you know about the Cortexiphan trials? Who are you?"

Broyles leaned over into Walter's vision. "Agent Carroway's employer is… rather influential in the British government, Dr Bishop. There isn't much that he doesn't know or isn't capable of finding out."

Walter opened his mouth to respond, but Olivia interjected. "Regardless of how your employer knows about the Cortexiphan trials or even that we solved our last case using a former Cortexiphan subject… we can't possibly do it again. There's no way Simon would agree to that. Put him on a plane and fly him to London? Impossible."

"Plus," Peter added, "it barely worked. We were able to prise one relevant word out of Downey's consciousness and it was almost sheer luck that we recognised it."

"Regardless," Carroway insisted. "We want to try." The agent looked back to Walter again, who was staring off into space with a hard look on his face. Astrid gently touched his arm and Walter started out of his reverie, looking back to Carroway again.

"Agent Dunham is correct," Walter said. "There is no way that we could take Simon to London. The tax on his mental faculties could very well kill him this time."

"Dr Bishop," Carroway said, "what if I told you I had a willing volunteer waiting for you in London, ready to take a dose of Cortexiphan and speak to Hammond himself?"

The silence that followed Carroway's statement was absolutely resounding. Olivia looked immediately to Broyles, who was apparently new to this information as well. Astrid's mouth was hanging open slightly in astonishment. Peter and Walter were frowning at Carroway.

"What did you just say?" Peter asked.

* * *

**London, England. Earlier...**

"No, Sherlock, absolutely not!" John exclaimed over the sounds of a Bach partita being drawn from Sherlock's violin strings.

Sherlock lowered his bow and fixed the doctor with a frown. "John, it is the only possible solution. We must know what Hammond knows and the only way to do that is to read his mind. The only way to read his mind is to take this Cortexiphan and allow it to enhance my mental capacity."

"Sherlock," John growled. "Cortexiphan… it's a drug from an almost forty-year old government experiment, and an American government experiment at that. How could you possibly know how you're going to react to it?"

"That's why we're bringing the man who invented it to London, John," Sherlock explained. "Dr Bishop will be able to synthesise and deliver the correct dosage of Cortexiphan. I believe the man might very well be mad… but all the best people are, don't you think?"

John sighed heavily and sank into his armchair. "How do you know it's going to work?"

"I don't."

"So you're going to risk your life on a completely insane theory—'''

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "I risk my life on an almost weekly basis…and for crimes less than this." Sherlock put his violin down and went to kneel in front of his partner. "Don't you see, John? This toxin could wipe out half of London in one go if they do it correctly. We have to do something to prevent that from happening."

"I know that, Sherlock," John said. "And believe me, I'm thrilled to hear that your interest in this case is going beyond the puzzle. But regardless of that, I will never be okay with you taking untested, mind-altering drugs that could potentially kill you or alter your brain chemistry permanently."

"Nothing's going to happen—'''

"But you don't know that," John insisted. "You read about the Cortexiphan subject that they used on that case in Boston. His telepathic ability was so strong that he had to isolate himself from society to prevent his own collapse. It made him physically ill to be around people. What if it affects you like that?"

"Simon Phillips had been given Cortexiphan as a child," Sherlock said. "Children have fewer inhibitions on their psyches and would naturally respond in a more enhanced way than an adult." Sherlock reached up a hand and stroked John's cheek in a gentle motion. John leaned into the motion and sighed.

"I have to do this, John," Sherlock said. "With or without your blessing, I'm going to do it. Dr Bishop created Cortexiphan and I am going to use his knowledge to solve this case. But I need you with me."

"You need me," John whispered.

Sherlock smiled. "I'd be lost without my blogger."


	11. Meet and Greet

Eleven: Meet and Greet

Peter was standing in the terminal at the airport in Boston with a cup of coffee clutched in his hands, gazing at the departure boards with a slight frown on his face. Their flight to Heathrow was delayed by about an hour, which only added to his sour mood. He, Walter, and Olivia were about to fly to London to do some kind of crazy experiment on a stranger that would probably melt the man's brain into a puddle. Of course, crazy experiments on strangers with the potential for organ-melting was kind of their thing… but even this was a shade more insane than their usual craziness.

"What are you thinking about?" Olivia's smoky alto voice broke into his thoughts as she sidled next to him with her own cup of coffee.

"Our flight's been delayed," he pointed out, gesturing to the board.

Olivia took a nonchalant sip of her coffee and then shrugged her shoulders. "It's only an hour, I suppose. Besides, I think Walter is rather enjoying himself." She pointed to the older man, who was chatting animatedly with a Portuguese couple over a basket of cheese danishes.

"Is he actually speaking Portuguese?" Peter asked, astounded. "Since when does he know Portuguese?"

Olivia smiled. "Ever get the feeling that Walter knows a lot more than he lets on?"

Peter laughed. "Only every day." He turned to watch Walter again as the scientist began to laugh riotously at something the woman had said. "Sometimes I think there are things Walter knows that he doesn't even know he knows."

The pair watched Walter from afar for some minutes until Peter turned to Olivia and asked, "Why are we going to London, Olivia?"

Peter saw something flash up in her eyes before her face assumed the careful mask that belonged to Agent Dunham. She gave him a half-smile and said, "We've got to help out if we can, Peter. Even if the Cortexiphan doesn't work—'''

"I still can't believe you agreed to that," Peter interrupted.

Olivia thrust her chin out a little in defence. "I didn't want to, Peter. Not really… not after what happened with Simon. But you heard what Broyles said. His contact in the British government seems to think that this is the only viable option left for them."

"But why the Cortexiphan?" Peter insisted. "You know how unstable the reactions can be… what if this guy has an adverse reaction to it?"

"It's not an adverse reaction that I fear." Peter and Olivia turned to see that Walter had joined them, holding his bags in one hand and a flaky Danish in the other. His face was drawn with unspoken anxiety.

Peter frowned. "Walter, if you're not worried about a bad reaction, then what are you worried about?"

Walter stared his son in the eye for a moment. "My fear, Peter?" Walter chortled gruffly. "My fear is this; what if it works?"

* * *

"John, the man is going to give me unproven nootropic drugs aimed to alter my mental status and hopefully give me the ability to read Hammond's mind. Why on earth would I rude to him?"

John let out a long-suffering sigh and watched the detective pace about the tiled floor in Heathrow, where they were waiting for the Bishops and Agent Dunham. Their flight had landed ten minutes ago and Sherlock had been anxiously pacing out of boredom for thirty.

"I'm just pointing out the social niceties, Sherlock," John said.

The detective snorted. "Since when have I bothered with social niceties, John?"

"I know, I know," John said, waving his hand about. "It's dull. However, Dr Bishop has agreed to help us so it would be great if you didn't take the piss out of him within the first forty seconds of meeting him."

To be completely frank, John wasn't worried about Sherlock's interaction with Dr Bishop. The American scientist had a CV that was right up Sherlock's alley insofar as that it was most definitely not dull. In fact, Dr Bishop seemed to have been dabbling in the strange and bizarre for most of his adult life, not to mention that he also made a living as a consulting doctor and scientist for the FBI, much in the way that Sherlock had created his profession as a consulting detective. No, John was pretty sure that Sherlock would play nice with Dr Bishop, at least for a while.

"You may want to straighten your tie before you head home," Sherlock told a passing businessman. "I think even your wife would be able to tell you're having an affair."

Still, John thought as the angered and bewildered man passed by, Sherlock could never have enough reminders about social niceties.

Sherlock was—of course—the first to spot the American trio as they came into the terminal. He held up his hand to catch the attention of the blonde woman, who was casting her eye around searching for them. He recognised the woman as Agent Olivia Dunham. John stood and took his place beside Sherlock as the three came up to them, followed by a twitchy security guard who kept trying to stop the older man.

"Sir," the security guard was saying, "sir, I really think you need—'''

"Young man," Dr Bishop said, "unless you have an IQ higher than mine, I really don't care what you think." With that, the scientist pushed his way past the security guard and halted in front of John and Sherlock. Both men had overheard his conversation with the security guard. Sherlock had a sanguine smile on his face and was trying to hold back a delighted chuckle. John looked as though he was trying to keep his jaw firmly cemented to his face, lest it drop open in shock.

"Dr Bishop," Sherlock greeted. The American took Sherlock's proffered hand and shook it. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr Bishop. Thank you for coming to London on such short notice. My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my partner, Dr John Watson."

John shook Dr Bishop's hand, saying, "Dr Bishop. Thank you for coming. It's an honour to meet you."

The scientist smiled faintly. "Is it?" he asked. He shook his head slightly and then nodded his head towards the two Englishmen. "No one's ever said that to me."

"He means thank you," the young man behind Dr Bishop said. John stifled a laugh and Sherlock shot him a confused look. The young man stepped forward and offered his hand. "Peter Bishop," he said. "You've already met my father, Dr Walter Bishop. This is Olivia Dunham with Fringe Division." Handshakes and introductory pleasantries were exchanged. John could sense Sherlock's impatience tingling under the surface, but was surprised when Dr Bishop was the first to speak.

"I wonder," he started, "if there's a place we might find some fish and chips. I haven't had authentic fish and chips since I was a young man."

"Walter," Peter started. "You had a meal on the flight over, I don't think—'''

"It's fine," John interrupted with a smile. "We've not had lunch either. It might be a good way for us to sit down and um… talk this over."

Sherlock let out his breath in one great huff, but at John's sharp look he smiled through gritted teeth and agreed. "Of course," he said. And then, with genuine interest, he said, "I would actually like to speak with you, Agent Dunham, about the Cortexiphan."

Olivia blinked in surprise, but nodded all the same. "Alright, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," the detective said.

Forty-five minutes later, Walter, Peter, and Olivia had dropped off their belongings at their hotel and joined John and Sherlock at a quiet pub for a basket of fish and chips. Everyone sank into their meals, even Sherlock, much to John's surprise. The waitress very graciously pretended to not be taken aback when Walter asked for a mango smoothie and then proceeded to dunk his fish into the concoction. Peter pursed his lips tightly as he watched his father munching happily away.

All five had agreed to a first name basis and soon thereafter John and Peter had fallen into a quiet discussion about the Middle East (seeing as how they'd both spent time there, John as a soldier and Peter as a civilian consultant). Walter was thoroughly engrossed in his meal and was currently telling the waitress that her Welsh accent was lovely. Sherlock turned to Olivia and began to pepper her with questions.

"You were a part of the Cortexiphan trials in the 1970s?" Sherlock asked.

Olivia nodded once, her grey eyes glazing over for a moment. "Yes, I was enrolled in the trials in Jacksonville, Florida when I was a child."

Sherlock studied her for a moment. He could of course, read many things about her in her minute facial expressions, but for once Sherlock decided to ask. "And?" he prompted. He was surprised when he saw Olivia begin to study him as well.

"I didn't even remember the trials until after I'd met the Bishops and began to work with them," she said. "But… as Walter remembers, I had the most potential in the Jacksonville group." She chuckled a little. "And that's saying something, you know. Some of the people I've met from that trial group were quite extraordinary."

"How so?" Sherlock asked.

Olivia's face glazed over in remembrance again. "Well… Nick could influence people's moods. Sally was a pyrokinetic. James could… exchange energy with people."

"And you, Olivia?" asked John, who was now listening to their conversation. Peter was looking at Olivia with an open, supporting gaze. Walter had even abandoned his chips to watch Olivia.

Olivia swallowed and then shrugged her shoulders. "I can cross between universes."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Peter cut across him. "Short version, there's an alternate universe that's exactly like ours…but slightly different because there were different choices made which led to different outcomes."

John's mouth snapped shut and he shook his head slightly, muttering something about "aliens" and "London". Sherlock grinned. "Fascinating," he said.

"Fascinating indeed," Walter cut in shortly. "Which brings us around to you, Mr Holmes." Walter's cheerfully oblivious mood vanished and was replaced by one of seriousness and something akin to authority.

"I am curious about a great many things, young man, specifically concerning how you seem to know so much about the Cortexiphan trials," Walter said. "However, I do not think that there is much use in discussing such trifles at the time being. If you are willing to subject yourself to an injection of Cortexiphan, I am willing to give it, although you must understand my hesitation to do so." Walter glanced at Olivia with a sad smile. "The Cortexiphan was not necessarily my finest achievement."

Walter cleared his throat. "The drug has had a varying spectrum of effects. I cannot guarantee that the results will be exactly what you desire. In fact… I cannot really guarantee that it will work at all."

Sherlock nodded. "If I knew of another way to proceed, Walter, I would go that route. However, we are at a standstill. Hammond's organisation is almost certainly planning a grand finale and I fear many lives are at stake."

"We've exhausted every resource," John added. "Every ear in the British government has been listening to the chatter for any word of their plan. Buildings are being searched, big events are getting boosts in security… we're doing everything we can in order to prepare for a disaster. But preventative measures would be ideal."

"The answers are so near," Sherlock mused. "Our suspect has all the answers we need right there in his mind." Peter looked at the consulting detective and saw a very familiar gleam in his eyes. It was the same look Olivia got when she was close to the solution of a case. It was a hungry, anticipatory look, laced with the quiet desperation in the search for answers.

"Well!" Walter said suddenly. He had a slightly manic smile back on his face and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "What are we waiting for? Take me to your centrifuge!"

* * *

**Hey guys. :) Hope you all had happy Christmases/Hanukkahs/Saturnalias etc... **

**And many happy returns for the new year... **

**To you lovely Britons who will be blessed with the return of Sherlock before the rest of us... I raise my box of tissues to you. :) **


	12. Cortexiphan

Twelve: Cortexiphan

* * *

"I'll need some equipment," Walter said. "Those fools at the airport wouldn't let half of my things through customs."

"I tried to tell you that they wouldn't," Peter muttered.

Sherlock unlocked the front door of Baker Street and held it open. "Not to worry, Dr Bishop. I have a lab set up in our flat and we've brought the necessary equipment over from St. Bart's Hospital."

The Americans followed John inside and Sherlock climbed the stairs after them after alerting Mrs Hudson that their guests had arrived and to ignore anything she might overhear in the next hour or so.

Walter crowed with delight when he saw the compilation of lab equipment that was taking up housing on their kitchen table. He and Sherlock were bent over what appeared to be a tray of fingers when John came in to put the kettle on.

"This is quite fantastic," Walter exclaimed as he poked one of the fingers with the end of a plastic pipette.

"It's fantastic until you find kidneys in the butter dish," John said as he flicked the kettle on.

"You're speaking to the man who once made an omelette with an ear inside of it," Peter said as he walked into the kitchen.

"Don't even think about it," John said as Sherlock's ears fairly perked up in interest.

Sherlock harrumphed at John but turned his attention back to Walter. "What will you need to proceed with the experiment, Dr Bishop?"

Walter reached into his bag and removed an IV bag full of red liquid. "The Cortexiphan is essentially ready to be used…however if you have a solution of calcium acetate, I wouldn't mind…"

The kettle whistled and John turned to shut it off as Walter and Sherlock bustled around the lab equipment, looking for the proper solutions and beakers. John filled a few cups with tea and took them into the living room, where Olivia was studying the file on Elliott Hammond. Peter wandered into the room after John and joined Olivia on the couch, taking a steaming cup of tea as he went.

"I was hoping you'd be able to fill us in a little more about the case," Olivia said as John settled opposite them. "The agents who came to Boston gave us the bare essentials, but I get the feeling that there's a lot more to this than they let on."

John spent the next fifteen minutes elaborating on the missing aspects of the case for Peter and Olivia, starting with Mycroft's appearance at their flat at the start of the case and culminating with Hammond's collision with the car and his subsequent coma. He gave them the highlights of their interview with Ariadne Watson and everything he knew about Project Rust. Olivia's expression had grown more and more distant as John spoke.

"Olivia," Peter said. "What's wrong?"

Olivia started slightly as if she'd been startled out of a reverie. She blinked a few times and shook her head with a small smile. "Nothing… just, déjà vu you know?" She shook her head again before turning her attention back to John. "You think that Hammond's people are planning to release the toxin in a large quantity?"

John nodded. "The toxin that's been released so far hasn't… well, to be completely frank, it's been absolutely devastating, but not to the right people. The car bombs and the canister in the lift… all of the victims were civilians who had no connection to Project Rust, Dr Schaffer, or Dr Hammond whatsoever."

"They were testing it," Peter said. "They were testing the toxin on groups of random people to gauge the effects."

"That's what we think," John affirmed. "But if we accept that Hammond's motive involves revenge upon the people who halted Schaffer's project and ridiculed his work… well, there hasn't been anyone yet."

"Do you have a list of potential targets?" Olivia asked.

John handed over a stack of dossiers to the FBI agent. "This is what Mycroft dug up for us. Twelve government officials and nine military officials that were connected to Schaffer's projects for the Ministry of Defence… they seem to be the most likely targets. However, because the toxin degrades living tissue as well as dead, we're worried about the amount of collateral damage that may occur."

Peter looked up from the file on the toxin itself. "As long as it has organic tissue to feed on…"

"We assume it will continue to live," John finished for him. "Yes. Our pathologists are working on creating immunizations."

"Wouldn't Schaffer's people have already developed an immunization in tandem with the toxin?" Olivia asked. "That's what happened with our case in Boston."

John shook his head. "The formula for the antitoxin was destroyed when Hammond stole the raw materials from the warehouse. And none of the people who worked on the project developed the immunization… that was all Schaffer's work."

"Damn," Peter muttered.

Olivia closed the file on her lap and added it to the pile on the coffee table. She folded her hands in front of her and looked over at John with a determined expression on her face. "We're going to do everything we can to help you, Dr Watson," she said.

"Indeed we are," Walter said from the entryway into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway in his lab coat, a grim expression set on his face.

"The Cortexiphan is ready," he said.

Sherlock had removed his buttoned shirt and was reclining in his armchair in just his trousers and his dressing gown, hands steepled under his chin and a faraway glaze over his eyes. Walter, Peter, and John were hooking up the machines that would monitor Sherlock's pulse and oxygen levels. Olivia brought a cup of tea into the room and handed it to Sherlock, effectively breaking his trance. He accepted the cup from her and muttered his thanks.

"I don't know what you will experience," Olivia said. At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, she elaborated. "I was treated with Cortexiphan when I was a child, but since I started working with Walter in Fringe Division, I've had more injections. It's…" she trailed off and waved her hand about vaguely. "Odd," she finished.

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement. He sipped at his tea and then asked, "Will it hurt?"

Olivia considered the detective. He'd been maintaining a very dominant, cool attitude about the entire process (with maybe even a hint of excitement). But now, as he asked the inevitable question, he looked so much younger and so much more vulnerable. _This must be the man behind the mask_, Olivia thought.

She nodded, once. "Yes," she said. "It hurts."

"Right!" Walter exclaimed as he plugged one last line into the machine. "I think we're ready. Sherlock, if you could join us… we'll get started."

Sherlock stood and went to sit in the chair in the middle of the room. John slipped the pulse-reading device on his finger and nudged the shoulders of his dressing gown aside to attach some other cables to his chest. Sherlock rested one hand on John's forearm before the doctor pulled away to allow Walter to move in. John smiled affectionately at his partner. He knew that Sherlock could read the worry in his face, but John could also read the slight mentions of apprehension in Sherlock's eyes as well. John kissed the man's forehead lightly and they released each other. The doctor took a step back to join Peter at the machine. Olivia took up a post just behind Sherlock's head and to the left. She was watching him with an intensity that everyone recognised as familiarity, for surely… Olivia was no stranger to this process.

Walter moved to stand beside the detective and held up what appeared to be a large glue gun with a syringe sticking out of its end.

"I'm going to insert the Cortexiphan into your brain stem directly," he told Sherlock. "It will cross the blood-brain barrier more quickly this way." John inhaled sharply but offered no protest.

Walter looked Sherlock directly in the eye. "I do not know what you will experience, Sherlock. Your mind is not as closed as most, but even so… the barriers of your psyche will be torn open. You will experience things you've never experienced before. I'm afraid… I'm afraid it will hurt."

Sherlock gripped the arms of his chair. His eyes flickered up to meet John's briefly before returning to Walter's. "Whenever you're ready, Dr Bishop," he said with an air of finality.

Walter nodded grimly and then nudged the detective's shoulder so that he would lean forward in the chair. He positioned the syringe right at the base of Sherlock's head, the red liquid inside tilting forward.

"Three," Walter counted, "two… one…" The syringe gun hissed and the Cortexiphan emptied itself into Sherlock's brain. Sherlock hissed in pain and then….and then…

His eyes flew open in shock, his pupils dilating under the sudden onslaught of adrenaline and oxygen and Cortexiphan. He gasped for breath and groaned in pain as he felt his mind buried under a heap of new, mental sensations. The room around him was suddenly very bright, causing all the shapes to blur together. Somewhere vaguely to his left, he thought he heard John's voice, but it was drowned out as he felt another sharp prick at the base of his skull.

Another round of fire surged through his brain and Sherlock drowned in its light.


	13. Through the Looking Glass

Thirteen: Through the Looking Glass

* * *

For many long, inexplicable minutes… there was only pain. Indelible pain, as if someone was tearing through his consciousness with a meat hook. His head was throbbing and his vision bursting with black stars and Technicolor kaleidoscopes. The sound of a thousand shrieking violins tore through, ripping a sonic hole in the universe.

And as quickly as it had come… it was gone again.

He didn't know how long he remained in limbo. It could have been eras… or mere seconds.

And then slowly…ever so slowly… he returned.

A bright light was shining in front of him…somewhere. He could see it and feel it behind his closed eyelids, insistent and warm. There was no other sensation than that of the light… just the light and the faint sound of his heart beating in his ears.

Sherlock had most certainly been introduced to a number of drugs over the years, since he had at one time been a recreational user in addition to the number of times he'd been dosed unwillingly on cases. But never in his life had he experienced anything quite like this before. He had no awareness of his own limbs or indeed any sense of corporealness whatsoever.

Everything was quiet. Still. The bright light was still shining on the edges of his consciousness, dull pink as it shone through the skin of his eyelids. He could hear the sound of his heart beating comfortingly in the distance, like the call of a far-off drum. Otherwise… there was only silence and stillness. It was a sensation Sherlock was not accustomed to feeling, since the grinding and humming of his mind provided a constant chitter of commotion inside him. Now, there was only silence.

But no… wait.

There was a new sound creeping into awareness. Something… familiar. The sound of a violin, pizzicato and insistent.

Sensation was returning, for now he could feel a crisp breeze ruffling his hair and his clothing. He could smell London… smoke and dust and petrichor and for some reason… apples.

Sherlock wrenched his eyes open.

He blinked once.

Twice.

He was sitting in his chair… as he had been when Walter injected him with the Cortexiphan. But the chair was no longer situated inside their living room at 221 B. Instead, he found himself on the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital, the whole of London before his eyes. The afternoon sun was shining down into his eyes, filtering down through the leaves of an apple tree that seemed to be sprouting in the middle of the cement.

A twig snapped and an apple fell into his lap. It was red and shiny and perfect… except where it was marred by the letters "I O U".

Sherlock grasped the apple in his hand and stood quickly, heart pounding and eyes searching the rooftop. He hurried to the ledge, but when he peered over the edge, he didn't see the streets below, but instead the bottom of a swimming pool. Another breeze blew through, wafting up the smell of chlorinated water.

Sherlock stepped back from the edge of the roof, uncomprehending. Movement at the periphery of his vision caught his attention, so he looked back towards the chair and the apple tree. He fully expected to see a shadow of his old nemesis, James Moriarty.

But Moriarty wasn't there.

It was him… Sherlock Holmes. Another Sherlock Holmes was reclining in the chair under the apple tree, prodding at the low-hanging fruit with Mycroft's umbrella. The other-Sherlock was dressed in nothing but a bed sheet that was wrapped artlessly around his form like a shoddy toga.

Mouth dry and heart thumping wildly, Sherlock took three steps forward.

The movement brought him to the clone's attention, for he dropped the umbrella and focused his attention on Sherlock, a sly grin stretching across his face. The other-Sherlock stood from the chair in one graceful movement, adjusting the sheet as he went. Sherlock swallowed drily as the clone began to circle around him, striding with purpose and reaching out occasionally to poke at him with the end of the umbrella.

"All lives end," the clone said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The other-Sherlock poked at him again with the umbrella. Sherlock tried to reach out and snatch it from his grasp, but the clone laughed a dark baritone chuckle and danced away.

"All hearts are broken," the clone sang mockingly.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked. But the clone simply ignored him and continued to sashay around him.

Finally, other-Sherlock stopped in front of him. The clone stared him down and whispered, "I owe you a fall." Sherlock reached out to try and grab his clone's shoulders, but as his hands approached the other-Sherlock, the man vanished from sight. The empty sheet fluttered to the ground.

"Sherlock."

The sound of John's voice made him whip around. The doctor was standing on the ledge of the roof, wearing his army fatigues and clutching a red apple in his left hand. Sherlock walked quickly to stand beside him, but hesitated to touch him, lest he vanish in the same way his clone did.

"John?" he asked. "John, what's happening?"

John handed him the apple and Sherlock accepted it, noting that this apple's surface was smooth and unmarked.

"I owe you," John said. He took a step backwards, forcing him closer to the edge of the roof.

"John," Sherlock stammered. "Please… John, come here. You're too close to the edge."

John smiled. "Come stand with me, love. Come to the edge."

Sherlock took a hesitant step forward. His longer gait brought him side-by-side with the doctor, who smiled warmly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. John stretched up on his toes and brought his face close to Sherlock's. The detective thought John meant to reach his lips for a kiss, but instead John went for his ear. The doctor's lips grazed the shell of his ear for a moment, sending a frisson of ecstasy down Sherlock's spine.

"A fall," John whispered into his ear.

Before Sherlock could react, John's arms tugged firmly on his waist and then they were falling. The air tore at them and Sherlock could practically feel his heart hammering inside his mouth and a sickening swooping sensation eating away at his insides. The ground, which had been replaced by a swimming pool, loomed closer and closer.

They hit the water with a bone-shattering smack and Sherlock screamed in pain…


End file.
